


Of An Emperor's Enervation

by Badendchan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - D/sverse, Bathing/Washing, Biological Imperative, Bondage, Collars, Dom/sub, Domme!Byleth, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kink, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, Strap-Ons, Weddings, as in it takes a while for actual smut to occur, guided masturbation, sub!Edelgard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badendchan/pseuds/Badendchan
Summary: "I think of all I’ve - Allwe’vebuilt together, you and I, the Black Eagles, all who’ve sacrificed for these lofty aspirations… The stability of the Empire, of the United Fódlan, our image of strength under my leadership – itcan’tbe right of me to risk that for my own selfish whims, and yet I find myself… I find myself wanting it, nonetheless. To be free to cease hiding, to finally be wed, to wear your collar without fear.”All her life, she's suppressed her true nature from all but a trusted few. The mantle of her position and gravity of her goals have demanded it, while the remnants of past trauma - physical and otherwise - made a different path unthinkable. Yet now, in the wake of a war, in the light of an age of peace, could Edelgard von Hresvelg be able to finally, fully embrace her dynamic as a submissive? ...She will if her beloved Byleth's got anything to say about it, at least.(tl;dr -- A sapphic Edeleth spinoff of the 3H D/s-verse AU)
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 93
Kudos: 162
Collections: DS-Verse FE3H Fics





	1. Bergamot

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by, and spun off of, the fantastic FE:3H D/sverse setting seen in [won't go down easy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020399) from the eminent [dustofwarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare)  
> ...So if you're not familiar with the D/s-verse concept, there's an easy way to explore it, but in quick summary: Hey, neat, a world where everyone is born with a natural inclination towards one side of the dynamic on a pseudobiological level, and thus society has adjusted to accommodate as a normal facet of life, for good or for ill.
> 
> (And, like... some changes to character relationships 'n a couple of their dynamics, obviously, so consider this a 'samey-unless-retconned-otherwise' kind of ripoff, and/or tribute. Most crucially altered: the fact that I'm sapphic Edeleth trash and therefore I'm gonna bork it all up to fit.
> 
> The full-on smuttiness'll take a while to be fully cooked, so tags'll hafta be adjusted accordingly once we get there. If. Once-and-if. I mean, this MIGHT just be a trashfire that needs to be put out on the quick. You be the judge! ...But, like. Don't judge very hard. And, uh. Oh. Now I'm thinking about people judging it. I shouldn't have done that. Unbeta'd, rush-edited. Sorry if this sucks ass.

“ _ **B-bergamot…!”**_

Byleth’s hands are off her in that instant, and a silken nightgown pulled around Edelgard’s shoulders, concealing her nudity and cool against her heated, sweat-slick skin.

Guilt, shame, irritation, dread, stifled arousal, _inadequacy._ She’s so weary of this routine. So tired of having every other attempt at deeper intimacy hamstrung, every other effort towards fulfilling their mutual needs cut down.

_Which surely means it must be thrice as infuriating for Byleth._

“I’m sorr--” Edelgard begins, right as Byleth tries, “Are you alri--”

The pair tumble to another clumsy halt, the royal bedchambers left silent save an awkward clearing of throats, with Edelgard ceding Byleth the right-of-way.

“Are you alright, El? ...Was it something in particular this time, or…” She tilts her hand back and forth, vaguely. “More of the same?”

Edelgard shakes her head, breaths still swiftly paced. “The latter, for the most part… Just another memory from those days, and only a flash, but… I began to question myself, then I’m afraid I panicked, and...”

Byleth takes the Emperor’s hands and begins to massage her wrists, her palms, tracing out random shapes to provide an unobtrusive grounding touch as Edelgard reins herself in.

“Since… _this_ won’t be an option tonight, is there anything else you’d like? Hubert’s undoubtedly still awake at this hour, I could have him fetch some of your medicine. Do you think it would help you settle tonight?”

“No--! No, I… I’ll be fine,” Edelgard insists, struggling to steel herself.

It might help for a time, that much is true, vital as it’s been to get her this far. But the after-effects, the compounded dulling of her impulses, the disconnection… With every dose of that foul Agarthan draught she’s imbibed over the years, both forced and voluntary, it feels as if she’s lost another portion of herself, sanded away on a lathe grain by grain. She’s tired, so utterly tired of being denied, of staunchly denying herself, of years spent obfuscating her very nature.

_Edelgard von Hresvelg is a submissive._

Byleth observes her for a few seconds with explicit concern, weighing the benefits of asserting herself, then nods. “Alright. But you’ll tell me if you need it?” It’s soft-spoken, and considerate, and inarguably not a question.

“...Yes, my teacher.”

_And Byleth Eisner is her dominant._

It should be as simple as that, and in another world, perhaps it could be. But to the people of Fódlan, friend and foe, the infamous Emperor Edelgard is but one more dominant in an unbroken chain, as with all the great Adrestian rulers of note. _She has to be;_ it’s one thing for a submissive to hold dominion over a vaunted cabinet position or two, perhaps manage one of the major territorial holdings, but the _throne_ _itself_ _?_

Even within the Empire, where philosophical stances on the nature of dynamics are more progressive than the dogma of Faerghus, how many would have faith entrusting the fate of the nation to a meek, ninth-born submissive? Who would bend the knee and swear fealty, lend their sword and spear, who would believe her to possess the tenacity, the determination required for such grand designs to bare fangs at the very personification of the Goddess’ will?

_Nearly_ _n_ _o one, that’s who,_ _not enough to have turned the tide_ _._ _On that point, she and those Agarthan vipers had a temporary consensus._ _And thus,_ _the mask_ _remained. But she had hoped..._

“I merely thought, hoped, it might be different now… Now that the war is well and truly through. I thought my mind, my body, they would be more… receptive.” Edelgard’s honest efforts to scrabble for composure falter, and she sniffles, struggling not to allow such a childish display. “Like they always should have been.”

Roughly a year has passed since the fall of the Archbishop Rhea – _The Immaculate One_ – marked the end of the so-called Unification War, merely off-mark by a matter of weeks. The combined efforts of Edelgard’s truest allies and her beloved Byleth have finally purged the bulk of _Those Who Slither In The Dark_ from the face of Fódlan. With Shambhala scoured and sealed, their remaining contacts scattered and scared, hounded at every turn by her spymaster’s agents, her retinue’s hastened return to Enbarr was in triumph with hopes high for the future of their land.

_So **why?** So **why** can’t she just let go? Has she still not done enough? Will she **ever?**_

If ever there was a time to celebrate, to let the weight of the Emperor’s mantle be eased, it would be now. Her life’s work is not yet fully finished, true, but… is it truly so much to ask, to have this? _This one thing?_

Byleth squeezes her hands once more, unfazed. “It’s alright. You just need more time.”

“And how much time will that be, compared to how little I have left?! Will it be enough?” Edelgard snaps, her frustration abruptly overriding her propriety and deference both.

And she knows, she KNOWS a _Proper Submissive_ would never speak that way to her dominant, and she can easily discern the festering guilt in her gut, but as if at a great distance… muffled, like all the inherent senses connected to her nature.

“Edelgard,” Byleth warns, adding some weight to her otherwise affable tone of voice. The Emperor emits an undignified whine of dismay.

She knows so many submissives would do _anything_ to be put under at a time like this, that it would help them get out of their heads, that it would… That it would do _something_ more to grant her peace of mind, clarity of vision, that it would bring delight to her dominant, who deserves to have her own needs sated in turn. She knows that to visit that enraptured headspace of true, loving submission would likely work wonders.

But then, Edelgard wouldn't know from experience. Because Edelgard's _never been._ Not fully.

“Aren’t you… Does it truly not _disappoint_ you in some way? That I’m not a traditional submissive? That everything they’ve done to me, that I’ve done to myself, has left me so… difficult? _Broken?_ ”

Chuckling warmly, Byleth transfers both Edelgard’s hands into just one of her own, freeing the other up to brush through the Emperor’s bangs, thread into her ivory locks. “Tradition’s never mattered much to me, El. I could ask you the same; wouldn’t you have preferred a normal dominant? You know, one who _actually knew_ her own nature from the start, not just… learning as she goes along?”

_What? The thought is pure anathema! How could she want anyone other than her dear Professor?_

“My Teacher, no…! It never mattered if you knew the words, the particulars – For all that I’ve been left incomplete, you’re the only one to make me feel this way, so…” Edelgard shrugs, letting her head loll into Byleth’s fingers, who cups her cheek and manually lifts her wavering gaze into focus.

“And the same goes for you. I won’t have you doubting yourself, El. I still want you to be mine. No matter how long it takes us.”

Edelgard frowns – _pouts, really_ – as the fortress that is her fear, her paranoia, her Completely Logical Argument Against Indulgence, is besieged by Byleth’s soft reassurances.

“I, as well, but-- But Byleth, you _**know**_ why I’ve maintained this secrecy. You know if things were different, I would have said yes, that day the war ended – even at the Goddess Tower, if you’d asked more of me!”

She so often dreams of it, day and night, when she lets her mind wander from her work. Of paths in which she weren’t so rigid, so weak, and had tossed aside all her noble raiment to elope.

“But then I think of all I’ve-- All _we’ve_ built together, you and I, the Black Eagles, all who’ve sacrificed for these lofty aspirations… The stability of the Empire, of the United Fódlan, our image of strength under my leadership – it _can’t_ be right of me to risk that for my own selfish whims, and yet I find myself… I find myself wanting it, nonetheless. To be free to cease hiding, to finally be wed, to wear your collar without fear.”

“...So then we’re doing it.”

Edelgard blinks. _“Pardon…_ _?”_

Byleth looks rather pleased all of a sudden, like a cat who’s caught its rat – though she’ll never say as much, lest Edelgard blanch at the comparison to her least-favorite beast. “You’d wanted to stop pretending, now that the wars are over – To live more truly to yourself, right? And I want to be a better dominant for you, so you can finally have what you’ve needed all along. _T_ _hat_ means practicing when I should take more responsibility from your hands.”

A moment’s pause, Byleth cheekily building suspense as if she’s about to unleash a grand revelation, infinitely complex in its design.

“So, we’re doing it, and as soon as possible. _**Because I said so.**_ ” Byleth beams, so casually swinging about her inimitable brand of unyielding, even-tempered dominance like an unsupervised toddler with a toy sword. _And_ _ridiculously enough,_ _it works._

The yoke over Edelgard’s back is lifted, if slightly, simply from being able to surrender some of the decision’s weight to her Teacher. She could fight it, great swaths of her mind already _are_ fighting it, but… It’s not her battle to fight alone, and never was, never will be; isn’t that the point?

For all her apprehension, Edelgard can’t help the wry smile that cracks her fretful visage, and bursts into a breathless laugh.

“That’s _it?_ Without a moment’s hesitation, you risk casting all the Empire back into bitter chaos, risk challenges to a throne now held by a meager submissive? Accusations of the great General Eisner, attempting a coup? All that I might wear your collar? And you’ll tell them all it’s because you... said so?”

“ _ **...Yep!”**_

_This ridiculous woman. This strong, unpredictable, enigmatic, wonderful woman. This is the woman she’ll kneel for, singular in all the world._

“…I love you, Byleth.” Edelgard breathes, resting in her capable hand a minute longer before she inquires, “I think… I should take some air, before bed… If I might?”

“You’re sure? So soon after you panicked, I don’t want you to drop outright…” Byleth releases Edelgard’s hands with one last squeeze, but continues looking her over, scanning her eyes, making sure her secret-sub is steady enough not to be at risk.

Edelgard slides her arms properly into her nightshift’s sleeves and begins on the buttons. “I’ve merely a lot on my mind, my light. Even more still to think about, if we’re truly doing this--”

“We are.” Unflinching, unconcerned, and still with that gentle curve of a smile, that’s her Professor.

“...Er. Yes. _How_ we’re doing this, then,” Edelgard corrects herself, “How to approach our preparations, who to inform, to invite…” As she swivels to sling her legs off the edge of the bed, a pleasant thought comes to mind she simply must air: “What sort of collar you intend to have made.” _This_ _elation_ _just s_ _peaking_ _the words_ _all of a sudden, it’s like she’s a schoolgirl again! ...Seems like a good sign, all considered._

From behind, Byleth leans in to snake a hand through the veil of Edelgard’s silvery hair and idly massage the bare stretch of neck she finds there, not commenting on the palpable full-body shiver she feels. “Hm? Hey, now. Not to worry, I have ideas! ...But I think I’ll keep them a surprise. I want to keep the moment special.” Her fingers tease at Edelgard’s nape, hoping she’s sparking at least some of those calming instincts. “Though, who to ask about the crafting is another thing… I’d ask the best we knew, but she’s--”

“She’s a continent away, a foreign royal, and insufferably smug on a good day,” Edelgard completes the thought, “And we’ll have to invite her, too, considering her husband – She’s never going to let me hear the end of this, is she? ...Please, don’t leave me alone with her at the reception.”

Byleth chuckles, lifting El’s hair aside that she may plant a quick peck there against the Emperor’s throat. “Duly noted. Go on, get some fresh air, my heart.”

Flushing a modest pink, Edelgard mutters a respectful affirmative and straightens up her gown, donning a soft pair of slippers and shuffling for the door to her chambers’ balcony. She looks back just once, and Byleth is still watching, still admiring, igniting that uncharacteristically giddy glow of hope once more. Edelgard bows her head and ducks away.

It’s absurd, the lengths her mind will go in order to shut down this dream, but Byleth wouldn’t make such a promise without intention to fulfill it. There are risks, yes, and plenty of work to be done to see it through… But.

Despite everything, despite herself… it’s finally happening.

_She’s going to have her collar._


	2. Brooding before Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though content with their decision to soon make Edelgard's designation public, she and Byleth both are left with much to think about. Their respective pasts, if anything, and how they influence their joined future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i can't write & this is literally all just exposition

Edelgard slides shut the door to the balcony and pads out onto the stone tiles, breathing in the cool, calming scent of a recent rain, far enough gone to leave the landing mostly dry underfoot, but fill the night air with an earthy reminder of its presence.

The royal guard, and her ministers, put up no small fuss about her safety regarding the desire for a balcony overlooking the verdant castle gardens. _Assassins,_ they’d reasoned, as if their Emperor could possibly be in danger when half the castle already knows the great General Eisner ‘visits’ her every night, and isn’t seen to leave ‘til sunrise. She can only guess as to who would be fool enough to assail her while cradled in the arms of a possessive godslayer.

A compromise was settled, drawing the finest of the Vestra Sorcery Engineers away from their dark duties to secure her cozy outdoor landing with deadly latent enchantments. It _does_ dim the restful qualities of the space, knowing that hidden beneath her feet lie enough graven runes to incinerate an entire armed platoon, should one happen to spontaneously materialize outside her bedroom.

Pensive, Edelgard takes to the railing, feeling at least a little voyeuristic in watching a dutiful groundskeeper amble about at ground level with a flickering lantern, still out checking the floral arrangements for weather damage, picking out stray twigs and fallen blooms.

She’d always wondered what it might be like to keep a personal pillow next to the small stone patio table here. To kneel there in serene contentment next to Byleth each morning, as they share a fresh-brewed cup of tea and watch the world around them spring to life, Enbarr lit up with the sunrise. _A loving hand in her hair, petting her softly…_ But of course, to do so would mean to be seen, to have her secret spread. Would require courage to overcome her burnt-in unease _about_ consistently kneeling in the first place. _Now,_ she thinks, _perhaps I can revisit the idea…_

It’s left her reeling, Byleth’s straightforward choice to push through despite all obstacles, even when she should know better than to expect anything else from her Professor. That’s how it’s always been, ever since they’d met; Edelgard had sensed something about Byleth that day, that inevitable encounter. She’d no hard evidence as to the young mercenary’s latent _nature,_ but the impression she gave in effortlessly taking command, saving her life in the process, garnered the Emperor’s attention.

Edelgard spares a look back then, wondering after her… her fiancee? _That will take some adjustment._ The thick maroon curtains drawn in preparation for their botched ‘session’ obscure the room, leaving her to ponder what Byleth’s up to… _Just h_ _ow much of her life has been spent, pondering that woman and the mysteries she represents?_

Clues had been sparse for the both of them, for that matter – one, because there was so little to show, the other, because efforts were taken in excess to hide them.

Though too young to have presented outright by the _Insurrection of the Seven_ , Edelgard’s tendencies prior had trended towards collective expectation among the family she would be found a precocious submissive. By the time of her return to Adrestia from her forced stay in the north, all were utterly certain of Edelgard’s designation, and initial lesson plans being drafted in preparation: Interviews conducted amongst royal tutors, for the various classes expected overseeing a noble submissive’s etiquette when the time arrived.

Until the tragedy, and the experiments. The shackles and scalpels. Physicians ‘corrected,’ records burned, and Edelgard, lone survivor of Ionius’ children, announced as a proud dominant like her forebears.

They'd changed her, then. Violated her very essence, all in pursuit of creating the perfect vessel, the perfect tool, their Hegemon, their Flame Emperor. With all Edelgard’s siblings used up like so many spent torches, no natural dominants were left in their kennel for the harvest. For their schemes to take shape, their instrument could not be some pitiful, frail, docile submissive – _for such is the Agarthans’ lofty standard for her kind_ – and so, they took to work, applying all method of novel hexes and foul infusion processes in hopes to sear the dominant nature into her body alongside the Crest of Flames.

Edelgard heaves a hefty, pained sigh, then quickly gives an amicable _worry-not_ wave to the poor royal gardener she’d just frightened down below, undoubtedly terrified that _T_ _he Emperor_ _H_ _erself_ might’ve taken umbrage with her twig-picking performance.

No, Edelgard’s umbrage is with her own self, and her past, and its meaning for her future. As the morbid nostalgia of her thoughts guides her, she rolls up the wrist-long sleeve of her nightgown, eyeing some of the silvery ghosts of her thinner, less egregious surgical scars trailing her arm, now buried beneath those accrued in battle.

True, the work of Those Who Slither was botched and incomplete, yet once they’d imbued her with her second Crest, it was less of a concern her nature had not _fully_ changed, and only been mangled in the process. Her receptivity to acts and auras of dominance from others, dulled, her needs and their physical effects, muted, but ever-mounting in the shadows. Her ability to feel at peace, comfortable in her body, comfortable in a sub’s headspace, guttered.

So long as they could pass her off as a dominant in some shape or form – _threats overhead to maintain the illusion,_ _instructions_ _to project a_ _powerful_ _artificial aura of her own,_ _those_ _bitter experimental_ _concoctions devised_ _to repress her instincts_ – they could take or leave how much anguish it put her through. They knew her kind, after all, and believed her incapable of independent thoughts of rebellion. The _fools._

Did her late father ever suspect, she wonders, that she wasn’t truly a dominant as Lord Arundel – _by then,_ _Thales_ – had claimed, after the fact? Was the grand speech at her ascension convincing, or just the desperate playacting of a young woman so far out of her depth, but too far sunk to resurface?

  
 _Could he have ever guessed_ _the guest she’d brought that day to witness her_ _take the crown... would one day be taking her,_ _as well_ _?_ _Father…_ _would you approve?_

Edelgard drags her sleeve down once more; Byleth’s often chided her for staring too long at those old markings… Although, oftentimes followed by pleasantly distracting her in leaving some light markings of her own, with deft little nips of teeth. _**Oh.**_ _Goodness._ _There’s a thought._ Another aspect she could always sense within, but never taste to its full intensity: That fluttery joy of a claiming mark… the sort she’ll have forever, the day they arrange to do this.

_Broken submissive or not, at least she knows herself, can trust in wh_ _o_ _she is_ _thanks to_ _such_ _fascinations, d_ _istant_ _as though they may be._ _Maybe it’s a sign she can yet be repaired._

* * *

Byleth gracelessly flops back onto the ploofy royal bed once Edelgard has slipped outside, folding her arms under her head and blowing an anguished little puff of air.

So much for _that_ attempt at soothing her love. Not that it’s any different than the dozens and dozens of times before they’ve run right into the same walls and pitfalls, but… It’s not doing wonders for her otherwise unshakable confidence. _Is she even going to be able to live up to her promise?_ _She’ll_ _battle_ _through a thousand soldiers without batting an eye,_ _draw steel against a holy dragon,_ _but failing those she_ _treasures_ _, that’s what makes her flinch._

As always, she’d set out some preliminary aftercare essentials on the end table, just in case, but they’ll once again go unneeded for the night… She should _probably_ go put them away. **Or.**

Or, she could just lie here, staring at the canopy of their four-poster bed, feeling a little moody about her methods and their lack of success rather than rejoicing in anticipation of the coming event.

She’s… never been the epitome of prime dominant material, that’s for sure. _A weird kid from the get-go,_ as Jeralt would’ve claimed, never quite in touch with her emotions, often blunt about the simplest things, unbelievably perceptive with others. When she’d come of age and no real leaning towards her nature came up, well… Everyone thought that seemed about right, given how things’d gone so far.

Nobody’d paid it any mind in the Blade Breaker’s company, so long as she could swing a sword with the best of them. None, not even her father, bothered giving her _‘the talk,’_ only offering clipped answers when she’d poke and prod about people’s inclinations – there were always bandits to put down, gold to score, ale to pound, who had time to give the captain’s creepy-ass kid a comprehensive run-down on the entirety of a core social concept and its associated biological element?

Byleth scowls at her memories, now that she bothers to retread them without a pesky crest stone suppressing her. _Maybe if they would have, she wouldn’t be as crummy a dominant now. Maybe she could actually put El under without striking a nerve._

Not until the Garreg Mach did she even get a peek at doms and subs existing in, well, actual _society,_ and with her own self still unsorted. As she watched from afar, fumbling her way through understanding the most basic notions – _Why are they kneeling on the grass when there’s_ _still space on the bench_ _? Won’t their pants get dirty? –_ her ‘mystery designation’ and unreadable exterior became a point of local gossip, games and bets a-plenty.

In one moment, Byleth would be faced down with a cocksure braggart of an academy student or church knight, challenging her to a spar or scholarly debate, hoping to see the new professor swayed by their swaggering-dom aura. The next, having deposited them in the dirt with but a few short strikes or riddled them with cogent points, would see her fawned over by a gaggle of coquettish submissives, each aiming to appeal for her favor. Byleth’s socially awkward, shy deflections, almost stereotypically like that of their own, would sway public perception back once more, and the cycle repeat itself ad nauseam.

In retrospect, it’s pretty funny, and Byleth cheers up a little in knowing for all the constant confusion from others, Edelgard had always intrinsically felt what lay at her core, that inborn air of authority tamped down by the crest stone implanted within. Something foundational that took Sothis’ awakening to recover, give her a decent chance to explore her dominance.

Byleth sighs, and sits up on the sheets. _But then, a_ _genuine, decent domme would… probably take care of business, rather than brooding, huh?_

Scooting off the bed’s edge, she stretches and sets to work, stowing away bottles of oil and ointments, some ‘ _intimacy aids’_ from an eccentric market stall, a bundle of thin red ribbon she’d opted to have on hand rather than rope, just in case things progressed past their frequent sticking points. _Just in case,_ _b_ _ecause she’s_ _certain it’s only a matter of time_ _._ _S_ _he will rise to the task, and be the woman Edelgard believes her to be,_ _provide her that safety and serenity in being able to let go. Be bound without fearing flashbacks. Embrace physical needs_ _and curiosities_ _without being reminded of a crueler, hateful sort of touch._ _Separate the pain of play from the pain of harm._

There’s still a jug of chilled water on the nightstand tray, and the former mercenary pours a cup for herself, glancing towards the curtained balcony windows and wondering after her wife-to-be.

Assuaging Edelgard’s fears about her inclinations has proven a challenge greater than anything she could simply stab a sword into, that much is true, but… _Why,_ she wonders, _is_ _El_ _still afraid she’s a burden? ...When she’s the reason this heart beats at all,_ _when guiding and protecting her bring Byleth so much joy every day_ _?_ _Maybe it’s a sub thing?_ _Huh._

It’s then that she recounts El’s irritated outburst just prior, reminded the woman fosters another fear, one regarding the aftermath of her experimentation. Off in Ordelia territory, Lysithea – _being another victim of the same grim experiments, albeit neutering her inherent dominance rather than the other way around_ – toils restlessly with Professor Hanneman and Linhardt to devise a safe process of reversing the shortened lifespan and blunted instincts she and Edelgard share.

Even with high confidence in their scholarly efforts, the Emperor has so oft expressed worries that it might fail; that worse than the threat of dying on the table, the process may leave her nature even more nullified than it is already. _It_ _’s_ _nothing to fear_ _,_ Byleth has said, _I’ll still love you all the same,_ _either way._ _I’ll always walk with you._

But even so, the dread lingers in those lilac eyes, and Byleth can’t help but mourn her inability to settle her. She has to hope that she can pull this off – that this ceremony, marking the end of the war in the shadows and a step out onto a brighter path, will empower them to end this stalemate.

Though… one thing she can do in the _here-and-now_ is ensure her beloved isn’t _also_ brooding herself into second thoughts, not when this intrepid step forward for the both of them requires they share that steadfast determination she always endeavors to embody. _No more worries this night._

Byleth sets aside her drained cup and pulls on a simple white shift for decency’s sake, then makes for the balcony exit.

Edelgard looks radiant as ever in the moonlight, positively glows, the light breeze toying at her tresses in rolling ivory waves. _This,_ Byleth thinks proudly, _is better_ _art_ _than any of those puffed-up royal portraits_ _in the gallery_ _._ _Where’s Ignatz these days? Could she_ _possibly_ _commission a_ _painting, or..._

Alas, she can’t stand there admiring the view forever. The door’s creaking catches the Emperor’s attention, and as Edelgard spins to face her, Byleth’s face cracks a small smile of its own volition, and she affects that nonchalant authority once more.

“Shouldn’t stay up too late. Back to bed, El. Come on.”


	3. Royal Obligations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a perfect world, there would be celebration after such a momentous personal event as last night's. Instead, Edelgard... attends to politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is still not spicy enough. I know. I know. I'm not living up to the spiciness expectations. ( ｡-_-｡) Gomen.

Had they properly conveyed _just how many_ miserable meetings with disagreeable, petty nobility would be a requisite for the seat of Emperor, Edelgard finds herself wondering if she’d have even gone to all the trouble.

This one, for instance, has run on entirely too long: some inane verbal slapfight over the managerial duties assigned to the new overseer of Varley territory, in the absence of its wretched Count. One slick-haired official even had the gall to _insinuate_ the Emperor had faulted in permitting the former heiress to abscond to Brigid in the arms of her lovers, rather than remain miserable shuttered away in a manor full of hurtful memories, finding some ‘suitable’ dominant with a respectable Major Crest to marry and mulling over… what, _mining disputes?_ _Ore tariffs?_

This is  _not_ how she need be spending her afternoon.  Having easily detected her disinterest in the coming day’s drudgery, and knowing full-well the Emperor was still pent-up from the misfire the night prior, Byleth had amicably offered to pass on some excuse of minor illness that they might fritter away the day in bed. Edelgard made her excuses, cited ‘responsibility’ and so forth...

_At this point,_ _she wishes Byleth had just made it an_ _**order.** _ Now she’s  once again  trapped herself into enduring these bloviating men’ s bloated egos. If she didn’t know any better of her Teacher, she might wonder if this  was an intentional  lesson.

Were Edelgard any sort of _True Dominant_ herself _,_ she’d simply pound the table or stand up in a rush, or some other decisive action to intimidate these bickering gulls into scattering to the winds. As it stands, feeling too exhausted to even play the part as she always has, she would only invite more argument, needled with incessant questions in the aftermath.

Edelgard fiddles with one of her curled crown’s golden caps on the side. She almost misses the war.

* * *

When finally the stuffy mob succumb to the whims of their stomachs and adjourn in search of supper, Edelgard signals for her Ministers to hang back, wishing a word with them.

“Your Majesty. I apologize for my lack of interjection to the Judge Rumpolt’s accusations, I was uncertain if you wished to personally rebuke his pathetic theory–” Hubert von Vestra begins with a bow, undoubtedly fantasizing a few scenarios in which he were permitted to use Dark Magic at the table. _Death Γ_ does have that peculiar tendency to cut meetings short.

As he returns to his full, looming height, the early evening sun filtered through cracks in the curtains catches on his collar, a thick, jet-black number with the Imperial crest denoted in fine silver. One to imply a submissive directly claimed by the Emperor herself.

_...Just another ridiculous farce. And something Edelgard intends to address._

Her childhood confidant Hubert had similarly spent great swaths of his life scrounging for scraps of satisfaction in submission, himself and Edelgard both futilely attempting to apply brute force to their own perceptions – that toiling in pursuit of grander goals for all the Empire surely counts as… _some_ sort of service, acts performed for some gestalt phantom dominant named _Adrestia._ One key act of note: aiding his Emperor’s ongoing deception, posing as _hers._

“It’s quite alright, Hubert. Actually, I’d… been intending to ask the both of you for counsel on something rather personal. Or, I should say, something personal with… potentially far-reaching effects, politically-speaking.”

Uncharacteristically quiet to this point, Ferdinand von Aegir steps forward to join them, casually resting a palm on the small of Hubert’s back. “Anything, Your Majesty. I intend no disrespect, but you seemed quite _troubled_ this entire afternoon. If I, nay, _we_ may be of aid, please do tell!”

“Byleth and I… we’re-- Byleth has _decided_ that… the time has come to end this charade.” She swallows. “That with the Agarthan threat addressed, and a year of successful reconstruction after the war… that the nation _should_ be stable enough to endure any potential risks inherent in…” _Oh, why can’t she just come out and say it? What would Byleth do? How would she…_

“I’ll be taking her collar.”

_...Yes, probably just like that. Blunt, to the point._

“Publicly. Our wedding and my ceremony, both.”

Both ministers are silent while sharing a distinctly startled look, but Ferdinand is the first to recover, carelessly wrenching a grunting Hubert to his side as he pumps a fist in triumph. “That’s great news! Wonderful for you both! You know, ever since our return from Shambhala, I had a hunch the day might come soon – not to brag, of course.”

“Really? I… imagined the both of you might have objections. Not that they’d exactly be mine to field, this being Byleth’s final decision...”

“My only present _objection,”_ Hubert cuts in, “being that _one_ of us needs to control his volume, lest someone OVERHEAR.” He finishes in a loud hiss, invalidating his own intention with his intensity.

“Ah-ha! Don’t be so dour, Hubert!” Ferdinand teases, the hand behind the other minister’s back dipping several more inches than is remotely appropriate in a meeting chamber and giving a rough squeeze. _(_ _Edelgard does not miss this._ _)_ “You’ll soon have to be more careful in sniping back so sharply, when I’m better able to put you in your place.”

Hubert claps a palm to his reddening face and mutters either profanity or profane ritual, possibly a blend of both. Spreading his fingers, he eyes his Emperor through the slit and asks her, flatly, “I do not suppose, Your Majesty, that it is too late to humbly request you suppress yourself for the remainder of your natural born life?”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid,” Edelgard laughs freely, the mundane troubles of the last few hours already losing their grip on her. “You’ll have to ask our Professor, and I don’t believe she’s in any rush to relinquish me. I do hope this won’t complicate things for the both of you, being as you were dragged into the ruse as well.”

“Feh.” Hubert straightens his hair, playing off his prior gesture. “Neither gossip amidst the commonfolk nor the nobility will hold sway over me; this was but another duty proudly undertaken in my service to the Empire, nothing more. And I believe it goes without saying this prattling fool here will be quite eager to replace this... _bland decoy_ with a symbol of his own once the news is public.”

“That I will!” That he will. Ferdinand has passively entertained many a thought for how to adorn Hubert’s neck during their rare tea times, and subtlety has never been the man’s strong suit. “I’m thinking a taller band, a deep purple velvet for lining, or perhaps a green to match his eyes…? Oh, but that’s neither here nor there! I should ask, are we the first you’ve told?”

“Assuming Byleth isn’t bragging to every member of the guard she passes on her rounds today, we should safely assume the news _is_ still a secret. That said, I’ll… have to draft an official announcement of our betrothal in the days to come, not to mention write to a few of our more distant allies, if they wish to begin making travel arrangements for the wedding itself…” 

Edelgard turns, running her fingers  along the polished edge of the table as she thinks.  _This really is happening, isn’t it?_ All those poets and littérateurs  crafting imagery of  having ‘butterflies’ in their stomach couldn’t’ve been more wrong: Edelgard’s feel more like a swarm of particularly harried hornets.

“But what I do not know is… My _designation,_ should it be known outside of these halls, outside of this inner circle, until the day itself has arrived? Should my ceremony come as a grand surprise to the nation, or… should we get it all over with now?” she asks, tone amplifying in anxious urgency with every passing thought. “Would the shock be disastrous for our standing as a government, or would allowing it time to fester lead to a chance of sabotage…? Need we implement laws, first, to protect my legitimacy, or would that show our hand? On whom can we rely to _officiate?_ How will this effect our foreign relations with _Sreng?_ ”

Ferdinand looks askance at Hubert and grimaces in sympathy for their hypervigilant head of state.  There’s that  ceaseless  fretting again, the same which Byleth would certainly stomp out with a mere possessive touch or one of those serene smiles of hers… In her absence, both Ministers relax their stance,  and aim to ease Edelgard with their age-old fallback:  _Contingency_ _Planning._ Always planning. Seldom can Edelgard von Hresvelg turn down  the  sturdy structure of a good plan.

They’ll  plan, draft, concoct, maybe even conspire if they’re feeling up to it. 

They’ll figure this out.

* * *

_From the desk of Her Imperial Majesty, Edelgard von Hresvelg, Ruler of Adrestia and all her Territories, Interim Leader of the United Fódlan,_

_My respects, King Khalid, the Silver-Tongued, and to your Queen and submissives as well._

_I will spare you the discourtesy of assuming your spies have not already found some way to relay these developments back to you in Almyra, even in part, but courtesy also expects I inform you through the proper channels. It is, after all, an invitation._

_While our appointed summit to reconvene on the treaty negotiations is yet four moons hence, I should advise you there will be an opportunity to host your retinue at an earlier date, provided you wish to attend._

_I am to be wed. This alone is no surprise, I am sure, and neither the identity of my fiancee, as I am quite aware of the public hearsay about my fondness for my foremost general. The crux of the matter is something else entirely. You were not the only one playing games about the intensity of your nature back at the Officer’s Academy, with perhaps my own efforts standing as a far greater deception._

_This is more than a wedding; it is to be a collaring ceremony. My own. Byleth and I have grown excruciatingly weary of the mummery we’ve undertaken over the years, obscuring my designation and her role in my life. The time has come to end the performance, lest we lose ourselves in the act. I intend to prove, without question, that a collared submissive can yet rule a nation unfettered, until such a time as our United Fódlan is fit to fully shed the outdated monarchical structure._

_But I digress. Should you desire to visit, accommodations will be made available to you and yours, including your mount, if you’ve intent to fly her. Exact dates and details to follow._

_Postscript – If you’ve still that insatiable urge to address me as ‘The Butcher of Fódlan,’ I would appreciate you only do so in Almyran at the reception. Thank you._

_..._

(“Holy shit,” blurts Hilda. “You’re telling me I could have had **The** Bitchygard von Stuffypants on her knees for me if I’d just gotten off my ass and tried? I could’ve had my pussy licked _AND_ stopped the _war_ _!_ ”

“You think? I wouldn’t be so sure,” answers Claude with a laugh. “You’re scary, babe, but I think that’s one ornery wyvern only good old Teach could tame.”)

* * *

_To the Honorable House of the Twin Queens of Brigid, Petra and Dorothea MacNeary,_

  
  


_It has been too long, friends; missives are one matter, but I do so miss our gatherings. Has it truly been over a half-year since Bernadetta’s ceremonial rite? I suppose, then, it is coincidentally appropriate that I find myself inviting you all to a similar occasion. I can hardly promise it will be as energetic an event, mind you, but significant all the same._

_Byleth has decided that, with the recent end of our other great struggle – which needn’t be addressed in this letter I’m sure – it is time for the two of us to take another step towards the future. That we shall finally cast aside the curtain and hide our bond no longer. We shall be married in roughly two moons time, that I may take her as my Empress Consort… And that I may take her collar, as well._

_And y_ _es, Dorothea,_ _I fully expect_ _you to proudly announce you’ve secretly_ _suspected or_ _known all along,_ _you and all the others_ _from our former house_ _back_ _in_ _the Academy_ _,_ _but this is nonetheless an important confession –_ _To come out of secrecy about such a thing after so long._ _Won’t you a_ _t least_ _do_ _me the favor of pretending it’s a surprise?_ _T_ _o_ _hesitantly_ _impart that_ _, yes, I am, and was always_ _in truth_ _, a sub…_ _it_ _fills me with apprehension,_ _with a pang of guilt for the deception besides_ _._ _Even w_ _riting it out as plainly as this to each of my valued_ _compatriots_ _is a test in and of itself, with a chilling grip of_ _ice_ _staying my hand until I force it through._

_I realize that the three of you are busy with your own affairs down there in the Archipelago, so I shan’t place any pressure on your attendance, but it would mean a great deal to me to have the support of my dearest Black Eagles in this transition. I will await either response with gratitude._

_..._

(“Alright, but I’m just saying, I _did_ know all along,” quips Dorothea, passing the letter back to her lovers across the meal table. “Do you think she’s already lined up a singer, or should I…?”)

* * *

_Dimitri,_

_I’m sorry you couldn’t be here. I’m sorry the ‘you’ that I’m even addressing died far longer ago than the year since we’ve last spoken._

_I chastise myself for spending too long contemplating paths we could not tread, but I cannot stop myself from imagining. In some other, distant world, I’d be inviting you to this celebration, you’d come down from chilly Fhirdiad with some happy submissive of yours, we’d laugh about your dancing… Our fathers would speak amicably, neighbors and allies. The same for our old houses. We’d all gather and celebrate and talk nothing of war, and death, and ghosts._

_But you were taken too soon, by those ghosts, if not by my trembling hand. And I can feel my own encroaching, clawing closer year by year. But this union, this step forward unarmored and unguarded, vulnerable, this is my gambit against them. The revulsion or emptiness that stops me from being able to simply let go and give myself over..._

_My own ghosts, I refuse to be ruled by them. Byleth is the only one who will move me now._

_May peace have found you, wayward brother._

…

(In the kingdom capital of Faerghus, wind rustles the leaves above a humble headstone marker.)

* * *

That _last_ letter, unlike the other dozen Edelgard has churned out over the past week, is promptly stuffed away into the very rear of her lowest desk drawer, its writer already ashamed of having spent so much time on self-flagellant nostalgia. It’s not as if there’s a place to send it, lest someone know a method to direct mail to the afterlife.

Still, she’s written to just about everyone else already, everyone who’d once been close to her. All her Black Eagles, both assigned and recruited, wherever they’ve flown off to nest. All the other former Academy students and faculty with whom the Empire maintains a cordial, or at the very least polite relationship, they’ll be welcome too.

So the least she could do is write to a long-lost family member, she’d thought grimly, as her thoughts drifted and she’d set her quill scribbling with a mind of its own – but now that it’s complete, she realizes she’s only set precedent, and there’s certainly no time to scrawl more overbearingly emotional notes to ten dead siblings and her late parents, as well. Not when she’s this tired, worn out from days of juggling her typical responsibilities with organizing a controversial, unprecedented ceremony in relative secret.

It’s well past midnight now,  the lone candle on her desk fighting  as much  a losing battle as herself ,  burnt  down to a mere stub. Edelgard caps her inkwell  and tidies up  her workspace ,  finally succumb ing to Byleth’s repeated suggestions she tuck in for the night. It’s for the best; any longer on that last letter’s particular tangent, and she’d  _surely_ be asking for  miserable  dreams tonight to repay her in kind.

The Emperor snuffs the candle and crawls onto the mattress where the great General Eisner stirs from her dozing, lifting an arm to coax Edelgard under the covers.

“Wondered f’you’d ever come t’bed…” Byleth slurs in a sleepy mumble, blinking up at her. “G’nite kiss… Thass’n order.” _However in the world she’_ _s_ _somehow managing to sound as dominant as ever in such a lazy, barely-there drawl is a mystery for the ages, but who is Edelgard to disobey?_

Huddling up close  into the cradle of Byleth’s arms , Edelgard pecks her lips to her love’s, bemused. “Goodnight, my light.  Sweet dreams. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm like. So sorry nobody's fucked yet. I'm still new at this, I looked at my outline and went, 'where can I add some early spice before the big spice so I don't make people wait too long?' and I just-- I couldn't find the right spot! I promise people DO fuck! It just... They need a minute! A few more minutes! Then there'll be some zest! Then a little break, then the BIG crux of the zest! (;´□｀)


	4. Requisition Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whilst Edelgard is busy playing politics back in the palace, Byleth ventures out in search of a supplier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is laaaaaaame what am i doiiiiiiiiiiiing

Enbarr’s sprawling public marketplace just off Wilhelm’s Plaza is likely the largest bazaar in all of Fódlan, and without doubt the most chaotic to navigate. Viewed from afar, stalls and tents of clashing colors in all shapes and sizes clot together into a singular, nearly indistinguishable mass, while the cacophony of barkers and auctioneers echo throughout from dawn to dusk. With such proximity to both the docks and the Imperial Palace, it hosts the bulk of the city’s commerce, and goods and services of all sorts can be procured, provided one possesses both enough coin and enough sense of direction not to get lost in the labyrinth.

Byleth knows where she’s going. The exact location’s shifted a few times, its owner being a bit of a roving soul that goes whither profit beckons, but for the time being, the former mercenary finds the great canopied tent tucked away where she’d left it last.

She’s shed her general’s attire for the day in lieu of a thick, dull-brown traveling cloak for the sake of anonymity, though in retrospect, the decision was slightly overkill. Despite Enbarr being in such a tizzy over the recent public proclamation of the grand wedding event to come, the average Adrestian isn’t liable to recognize the former Enlightened One and future Empress Consort, with most only having seen grandiose, caricatured renditions of her appearance, if at all. _Most of them probably still think she’s sporting the seafoam 'goddess hair.'_

Even so, one of the burly, freight-hauling bodyguards outside gives her a nod of acknowledgment as a regular, as do the pair of attendants at the counter as she steps inside, veterans from the old days.

The shop within is a microcosm of the bazaar as a whole; bits and pieces of everything from worthless kitsch to priceless historic weaponry line the racks and tables. Byleth does slow to snoop through a few nifty-looking trinkets, possible gifts for her friends when they arrive for the celebration, but… No, no, she has actual business here, she hasn’t come all this way to browse.

Stepping through another flap in the partitioned interior wall of the tent, the variety of goods on sale shift from general appeal to high specialization, catering to a very _specific_ set of needs for the clientele. _That, and… they’re not exactly appropriate for the eyes of younger guests to the marketplace. ‘Adults Only,’ reads the posted disclaimer._

“Well, well, well! Look who’s back so soon!” croons the red-haired shopkeep within, abandoning her bookkeeping to stand up and offer Byleth a handshake and a knowing wink. “Considering the big announcement, a _certain somebody_ must have LOVED that last purchase, right?”

“Hey, Anna. I… didn’t get to break it out, actually. She had another bad night. Flashbacks. Haven’t gotten that far yet.” Byleth hangs her head a little, once again catching that grimy feeling of being out of her depth as a dominant.

Anna looks a tad disappointed herself, striding back to a managerial desk flanked with lingerie-clad mannequins and spinning to plop back down on its edge. “Aww, boo. I said satisfaction guaranteed, and I stand by it!” The proprietress waves a hand out at the spread of kinky merchandise all around. “But you’ll get there! For now, I’m guessing you’re in the market for something else to spice up the big night, a wedding surprise? Be my guest, have a look, and shout if you need anything! I’ll just be over here, trying to make accounting look sexy.”

“Yeah, you could say that. I was going to ask you about special orders, but I’ll let you finish up.” Byleth chuckles awkwardly and starts off to sift through the displays. Always easier to do so when she can take her time, and not have a perky saleswoman trying to talk her up on the latest and greatest in debauchery.

It’s never been her intention to go violating Edelgard’s privacy, of course, and to her credit, never did she go announcing the truth of their relationship. Anna has always been a crafty one, and once she smelled the potential for gold in spades, she quickly put the pieces together about General Eisner’s super-sensitive mystery sub. Besides, for what Byleth hopes to arrange, she’s going to need a savvy supplier in the know, and the redhead’s always tried her best to offer what toys and tools one might expect could help Edelgard through her funk.

_Not that they’ve worked, and not that all parties haven’t been trying their best._

It’s nice to imagine, though. Byleth is ever a woman who can keep her libido in check – _having a crest stone suppressing the typical raging hormones during puberty tends to help in that regard_ – but her mind freely wanders whilst she peruses the displays, as with every time she pays a visit to Anna’s back room. Wondering what those nights of passion might be like, if not snuffed out by residual pain.

For example: The rows of matching, color-coordinated cuffs she’s slowed to examine. She already bought a set long ago, very cheap and basic just in case they didn’t work out, in plain black leather that, to Byleth’s skin, didn’t seem too rough or likely to chafe. Then again… Byleth hadn’t been the one enduring weeks in the Agarthans’ dank dungeon, fettered with thick, rusty restraints not meant to ease, but to hurt.

It had been early on in their relationship, not long after Rhea’s fall, and one of the few times they’d actually explored proper bondage during lovemaking. Both had hoped to expand their use, but despite Edelgard’s brief period of blissful relaxation, it wasn’t long before they became heavy and uncomfortable, weighted with troubling memories – Byleth knows she botched the approach somehow in her inexperience, and perhaps overprotectively, never dared try again with anything more than wrapping wrists with ribbon.

What will it be like, then? If it worked? If they make progress, and Edelgard can feel at ease? _Byleth would snap the fastening clasp and link the cuffs behind the Emperor’s back, a thin chain held taut between them and the back of the collar at her neck, keeping her in perfect posture. Edelgard would test them, obviously, as subs are so wont to do – probably make such a pretty sigh as she finds them snug, those submissive instincts sputtering to life in the knowledge she needn’t think about moving, about how to hold herself, as she’s given all that burden over to Byleth. The former mercenary would soak in the sight, reaching around from behind to cup and squeeze a handful of her beloved’s bosom here, to tickle her ribs there, to hear the constant jingle of the link between the cuffs, and know it’s not because Edelgard wants out; it’s because she wants more._

Assuming, that is, Byleth didn’t crash it again, going too far too fast, or missing a subconscious quirk in El’s behavior that means she still needs to stop, no matter her verbal confirmation. They’ve gotten better, the both of them have. _Maybe,_ Byleth realizes, _in her efforts not to take risks, she’s also contributed to their ongoing rut._ For all she scolds herself as an amateur dominant, in the time since her reawakening, she’s grown too!

The sets of paddles and floggers arranged on the next display can remind her of that – Their first time testing impact play, Edelgard had _seemed_ to like it, for the first few swats, until another flashback had leapt up from the shadows. She _said_ she was fine, but by then, Byleth knew the signs, knew she couldn’t jeopardize her sub’s mental health by pushing onward that night.

Could it be different soon? A little further along than acclimating to cuffs, of course, but… _Byleth would skim the flat of the softened, flexible calfskin paddle across the Emperor’s bare thighs, her cheeks, the white-haired woman bent forward over her lap as they lounge in the loveseat. She’d have been given a pillow to rest her head, of course, though chances are she’d be squeezing it and only taking a few shy peeks back at Byleth, who’d keep on teasing with the texture of the tool, stalling, stalling… And when the critical moment hits: a firm spank, a pitchy gasp, a faint blossom of color turning pale skin a pretty lily-pink. “O-one--!” Edelgard would dutifully sound off, and Byleth would smile, and stroke her hair, and give her a ‘two.’ Then three, four. Her El would be so good for her, never losing count, even if it takes her a few extra seconds to recover once she’s hit the halfway point and squirming nonstop. Halfway there, half left, until she can give her precious fiancee a special reward..._

That… that would be _something,_ alright, but no need to get ahead of herself. This is all about patience and preparation. Byleth gulps and gets back to her browsing, finding most of the wares in the first two aisles familiar enough, simple phallic substitutes of hard, polished glass, of layered, heavily-lacquered wood, or some strange springy texture. She’s got one stashed away back in the Royal Bedroom, and they’ve had some mild success using it by its lonesome, but… it’s rather basic, none of these exotic shapes and makes. _Very exotic,_ at that. Byleth isn’t here to shame anyone, but she can’t for the life of her imagine wanting a dildo stylized after the presumed genitalia of a Demonic Beast! Much less wearing it on herself, on one of those strappy leather harnesses she’s seen. _Now, one of those might be useful,_ she admits. _Might add it to the list._

She reaches the back soon enough, given she’s mostly killing time ‘til she can get a word in about her real plans and not exactly scrutinizing the wares. Lined up within an iron-lined cupboard are an array of countless candles in equally uncountable colors, differently designed than those lighting the lamps alongside – these, meant for wax play.

How long would it be ‘til THAT frontier is open to them? _Wherein Byleth would descend on a bare and blindfolded Edelgard, spread-eagle on soft satin sheets, massaging every inch of her front with aromatic oil in preparation. In one hand, she’d lovingly cup the Emperor’s cheek, and in the other, delicately tip the thin white candle in its holder, until a single bead of its melted contents drips onto her submissive’s pliant, naked figure. Edelgard would moan through lightly-clenched teeth, surprised more than anything else, especially over the rush of endorphins that follows the heat. Surprised that it didn’t really hurt, surprised that she wants another. And Byleth, humming pleasantly, would give her as much as she likes, as long as she likes, until her El’s body is painted in cooled waxy splotches of a half-dozen colors. A piece of artwork only they could make together._

“So, Missus General-slash-Empress-Consort, what exactly can _Anna the Fabulous Merchant_ do for you today?” the selfsame woman asks, having poofed into being behind Byleth’s back somewhere during her completely-innocent daydreaming. “You said something about ‘special orders,’ and you KNOW how that gets me going. Admittedly, that’s usually for fancy armaments, but hey!”

“Ah! Uh. Hello, again,” Byleth stammers, the last vision gone like smoke in the wind, and she spins to face the merchant, leaning against a cabinet slightly less packed with merchandise.

“I’ve got a bit of a bulk order I’d want to place. Custom. I need these to be… I’m sure there are suitable candidates on the shelves right now, but I need to be absolutely sure these are good for her. Safe. I need to get outfitted with a whole set of the usual kit people tend to expect, but…” Byleth scratches her head, mussing her blue locks a bit further. “I’m not sure if I should ask you, or a locksmith, but… Do you know if there are any varieties of restraints where…” She trails off, lips twisted in thought, scrounging for phrasing. “For cuffs and the like – where they can be fastened and locked, same as usual, no way to slip free on accident… But, if there was an emergency, there’d be some way for a sub to untie themselves? Some secret way of getting out if it’s on purpose?”

Anna doesn’t look at her like she’s grown a second head, so that’s a good sign. “So, like a trick lock?” she asks to clarify. “Sure, that’s not the strangest thing someone’s come asking for. I’ve had a few street performers come in asking for ‘em, then a couple of newbie dominants all shy and _pretending_ to be street performers asking for ‘em, it’d be no biggie to put the same gizmo in a classy, proper set. We talking just wrists, or ankles too? Thighs, biceps?”

Byleth barely gets to squeak in a sigh of relief before she’s back to being overwhelmed with possibilities and options to navigate. “ _A-all,_ actually, though I doubt the latter few would see use for a while. I… wrote down some initial ideas on the designs, the colors and material, if that would help.” The general tugs open her cloak and rummages in her pocket, popping out a rolled parchment with some frantic scrawling and simplistic sketches of her idea.

“Hmm… Alright, alright, _a little pricy,_ some of these... Is what I’d normally warn someone off the street, but then, you’re a bit of a big hero lady and have the Imperial Treasury to bankroll you, so I’ll just say ‘no problem.’ Though I do note…” Anna finishes unrolling the paper and places it on a clear stretch of a nearby wooden table. “This particular doodle down here happens to be… _a collar._ General Eisner? Would you happen to also be commissioning me, _Anna The Very Humble And Respectable Trader,_ to craft a fine collar to bestow upon _Her Majesty The Emperor Herself?”_

Byleth fidgets. “...Is that okay?”

“Of COURSE it’s okay!” the allegedly-humble, dubiously-respectable trader exclaims, throwing her hands up and bonking them into a hanging display of heavier metal restraints. “Ow. Anyway, as I was saying, I’ll be _more_ than happy to take on this very illustrious, world-class task for the two of you, provided I’m suitably compensated for my efforts, in gold _and_ glory… Might even shave some of the price off, because we’re _such_ good friends.” Anna waggles her eyebrows. “I’ll have your big wedding surprise ready… oh, maybe two, three days before, you can come pick it up then, I’ll bill the palace.”

“Actually, those aren’t… Those are just some equipment I think she and I’ll need going forward, and a collar for the big day – that wasn’t quite the wedding ‘surprise’ I’d come to ask about,” Byleth confesses, her coinpurse practically aching there at her side already. “I’ve actually got a bit of a… bigger request.”

And an even _bigger_ request than that means an even bigger pile of gold. Anna rests her chin on a fist and grins.

_“...I’m listening. Do tell.”_

* * *

After an arduous sequence of increasingly fiddly locks clanking free, the creaky metal door is at last shoved inward, spilling light onto its dreary contents. If one looks beyond the stacks of wooden crates and mounds of dusty documents, old Hresvelg heirlooms, rusty weapons and war materiel, they would recognize it to be a private, soundproofed interior chamber of stately décor just adjacent the Emperor’s accommodations, its original purpose lost to time – _the old Royal Boudoir._

Beneath all the boxes and bric-a-brac, various elements of lounge and bedroom furniture are spliced and augmented with traditional bondage installations and paraphernalia, long out of date, rusted or nibbled upon by the moths and termites. The sizable bed in back, with rings for cuff attachment points all across its posts, has crumpled in on itself under the weight of various crates. An ornate chaise-lounge and its partnered coffee table are now occupied by barrels of rolled parchments and stacks of administrative ledgers, the kneeling cushion alongside gnawed open and spilling its stuffing. A metal hook, dangling above for suspension play, now plays host to the sorry remains of an old fur housecoat.

With Ionius IX having been well into his advanced years even before the Insurrection, the room had already fallen into general disuse as little more than a storage chamber by the time of Edelgard’s coronation. Being as she had a bloody continent-spanning war on her hands, none seemed to pay any mind that the new Emperor gave no orders to have the place refurbished for usage by herself and her presumed submissive.

Luckily enough, someone else is giving the orders now.

“So… can you fix it up?” asks Byleth, stepping aside to allow her merchant companion the run of the place.

Anna saunters in with an appraising eye, lifting her lantern to flood the place with proper lighting and get a measure of the dimensions. “Ha! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’ve done furnishing supply gigs for prissy noble sitting rooms, I’ve done people’s personal playtime-dungeons, it’ll be no sweat!” She momentarily lowers her lamp to smile smugly back at Byleth. “Well, ‘no sweat’ because I’ll just be having my boys do the heavy lifting, but you get the idea.”

Byleth lets out a swelling sigh of relief, having not put too much stock in being able to manage the repairs in time. Now she doesn’t have to scramble to prep another surprise. “If you’re sure,” she says, passing Anna another sheet’s worth of potential designs and aesthetic directions. “I just don’t want her to find out about this until… you know.”

“You just keep Her Majesty out of this wing, me and my boys will get ‘er done. Gimmie a week!” Anna touts proudly, then glances at the drawn outline. “Week and a half, tops. We can work daytime shifts when she’s busy Emperor-ing, or whatever it is royals do all day. Just keep her busy.”

“I can do that, but I don’t like letting her overwork herself,” Byleth admits, “especially now, since she’s dealing with some…” Again, she finds herself at odds with giving away too much information about her beloved’s afflictions, but if she can solicit any help at all, she has to try. “Let’s just say, she’s working through a lot of stress. For a long time, she had to take an elixir to tamp down her… _needs,_ and everything. But I’m worried that once we get rid of it, she’ll start to drop, and _hard,_ and not the kind I can help go away… Do you, uh. Have you ever come across any potions like that before? Or any that would help with the withdrawal?”

Anna’s cocky mask is briefly dropped in lieu of a rare, serious-business mood. “Hm. That sounds rough. Sorry kiddo, but no dice. Never heard of any potion that’s _actually_ worth a lick helping with people’s instincts in the long run, myself – nothing except that homeopathic street trash sold by the same peddlers pushing enlargement pills, and you know that’s all hooey.” She sweeps a dirty old dresser clean and sets her lantern down on top. “Honestly? I’ll tell you straight: She’s probably just gonna need to sweat it out. But hey, even if you two’ve had hangups with putting her under, I can tell you’re a good dominant. You’ll get her through it.”

Damn. She’d really hoped Anna’d say she knew a guy who knew a guy, and be able to import some ‘help-El-settle’ juice. But, two out of three requests fulfilled is still a win.

“Thanks, Anna. I should... probably go and check on her now, come to think of it. The guards know to let you through, whenever you need in and out,” Byleth says in parting, passing the trader the boudoir key and slipping out the door.

Only to pop her head back around the corner some seconds later.

_“...And make sure there aren’t any rats!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, for those who only care about the fuckery, I apologize that nobody's fucked  
> like I have written fucking. it's there. it's in my document. it's just. uh. it's just a ways ahead and it's not even the grand fuckening. because my outline keeps expanding because aaah now it's at like 10 chapters maybe? unless? i add more?   
> what am I even doing, though  
> i'm not a writerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr  
> this isn't filling the VOID aaaaaaaaah   
> I'LL TRY TO MAKE THEM LESS BAD BUT NO PROMISES IT'LL WORK OUUUUUT


	5. Recollections, Good and Ill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A restless night for the royal couple, reliving memories dredged up by the mounting pressure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's trash folks. i'm. throwing garbage onto your screen. i... am not a writer.  
> also this is why i should never have undertaken multichapter endeavors. they dont fuck in this one but i promise somebody touches a genital when horny next chapter.  
> bluh.

Moonlight silently slinks its way through the crack in the curtains of the Royal Bedchambers, and falls upon the sleeping figures of the Emperor and Empress-to-be. The scene is peaceful, at a glance: Two lovers snuggled up under the covers as usual. Sadly, it’s far from the most restful of nights.

It’s officially been decided: Tomorrow, they’re stopping Edelgard’s treatment with the Agarthan suppressant altogether, for fear of what harm it inflicts upon her in the longer term and its ill effects on her nature. On its own, this would be wonderful, another on a series of brave first-steps for this chapter in their relationship. But neither are fools; they know it won’t be so easy.

Anxiety has mounted for the both of them. Edelgard, in imagining the potential consequences of cutting herself away from a concoction she’s relied upon – even when it was being forced upon her – since mid-adolescence. Physical or psychological, she doesn’t know what to expect, nor if it can be guarded against.

For Byleth, the pressure of responsibility for the decision, and the fear she’ll be unable to stave off the effects and keep them focused towards the future, instead of falling back.

Unable to find any local alchemists or herbalists stocking some fanciful cure-all potion that would solve the problem altogether, nor luck with Anna’s contacts in the farther regional markets, Byleth has scrounged together a stock of general-use herbs and teas for soothing stress and dulling pain, ready to break out at a moment’s notice. She prepared a kettle of chamomile before bed, ordered an early bedtime, and… well.

All they can do tonight is wait for the inevitable. Wait. And rest. And dream.

* * *

1184, 11th of the Red Wolf Moon. Faerghus borderlands, Gaspard Territory.

Being a former resident, Ashe had reminded them prior to departure that this would be a miserable stretch of land to hold, despite its proximity to the bulwark formed by the Oghma Mountains. He’d been hesitant to advise the army’s return to the site of Lord Lonato’s untimely demise at the behest of the Church, but word of an incursion force marching down from Arianrhod proved to be a legitimate threat.

For Edelgard, the ‘miserable’ factor wasn’t just the memory: It’s all the damnable _fog._ It hasn’t cleared in days, turning even their safely entrenched positions amid the tall trees into broad stretches of cloudy unknown, easily exploited. Her scouts have confirmed the enemy presence, yet they’re stalling at the oddest times; it’s like their commander is intent on walking in zig-zags to keep them all out in this muck as long as possible, rather than confront their fate at the end of Imperial spears.

It would be a short day’s trek back to their mountain fortifications to resupply, but foreboding has crept in; that the moment they turn their backs and break positions is when the foe will rush from the mist with weapon in hand.

She’s tired, nerves frayed, and edging on paranoid. Barely able to sleep, each morn awakened cold and clammy by an increasingly fretful Hubert. She’s dry on her supply of suppressant draught having been deployed this long, and the withdrawal effects are beginning to take. That yearning _need,_ one typically held far at bay. One she can’t handle on her own, nor petition for aid from her soldiers, no matter how many qualified dominants might be among their ranks. A twisting, wrenching carnal _need_ matched with an equivalently fierce _revulsion_ to indulging it. _Dread, even._ A slowly-spreading fire that can’t be smothered, only observed as it consumes.

Such an arduous four years, almost five, and she still can’t… She can’t even imagine baring a scrap of submission to anyone else. Anyone but her Professor. And even _that_ was but a childish fantasy, was it not? She’d never confessed as much to the mysterious mercenary before she was stolen away forever, spoke the truth about herself, her wishes… _If that’s how her life will go, fated never to find a substitute, so be it._

Edelgard’s fist clenches tight around the hilt of her axe, fingers growing sore from the force. _Flames,_ this isn’t the time to be lost in her inconsequential daydreams, the enemy vanguard has made contact! _What is wrong with her?!_

The Emperor’s detachment is spread precariously wide, a watchman intended to be in sight at any given time, but this wretched fog! The soldiers covering her from the east must have fallen in an instant, as she finds herself soon flanked, rearing around to face the sounds of encroaching combat.

Vaulting a singed and toppled tree-trunk blasted in twain by a fire spell shot astray, comes the furious, sword-slinging silhouette of...

**_Byleth…!?_ **

No. It’s an illusion. It’s not. Her Professor is dead, never to return, she _knows_ this. Her Professor would not be fighting under Kingdom colors, _she knows this._ But the split-second processes of her tactical mind are standing still as her natural instincts rush to irrational conclusions.

The Faerghan swordswoman is such a close likeness to her professor, though – in that beautifully muscled and buxom build, in her countenance, albeit turned into a more ferocious snarl than Byleth would ever have shown. Her similarly styled hair, _logically,_ is merely the common flaxen of the north, yet by a trick of the light filtered through the blueish misty gloom, it shimmers in that sea-green of Byleth’s blessing from Sothis. And above it all, the uninhibited aura, exuding utter, wanton _dominance_ as she demands the Emperor’s surrender – to _claim_ her, albeit not as a loved and protected one, but a trophy, as some testament to her ridiculous Faerghan ‘honor.’ The combined effect makes the knight mythical, almost like she’s growing even larger than life with every-- _Oh._

She’s not growing taller. Edelgard is _falling._ Her body seems to be sapped of its stability then, succumbing to gravity, this impulse to give way and give herself, to give in for _Byleth…_ Slamming down painfully hard onto one knee in the brackish mud of the forest floor.

But one bent knee is all she gives.

There is only time enough for the realization to dawn on the Faerghan’s face – the bewilderment and pride at having influenced _the Imperial Monarch herself_ – before Edelgard’s eyes burn with years of shame, and longing, and rebellious rage. Before she utilizes her newfound stance to angle her arcing attack beneath the knight’s guard, and the crest-axe _Aymr_ cleaves apart the doppelganger’s ribcage with a terrible crack.

As she wrenches her bloody weapon free from the fallen fake and lurches to her feet, she can practically feel the suspicious eyes of the enemy, of her own soldiers crawling on her mud-spattered skin. Judging, analyzing, scanning for weakness, for infirmity. _Did they see her? Do they know?_ Barking a command to regroup, she steels herself for the merciless fray and redoubles her long-held internal vow, triples, even: _She shall kneel for no one._

…

The residual burn of humiliation from the memory chases Edelgard even outside her dream, as she blinks hazily and props herself up on an elbow, adjusting to the morning light. Naturally, the first thing her eyes find to focus upon is the reclining form of her beloved beside her, brows pinched in mild concentration even as she slumbers. She can only hope Byleth’s dreams have been more pleasant than her own.

_Byleth was the only one,_ she thinks as she fondly admires her fiancee. _If ever there was someone for whom to break that vow… Only her._

* * *

1185, 31st of the Ethereal Moon. Ruins of Garreg Mach Monastery.

“Five years ago, to the day...”

Byleth recognizes the voice immediately, giving its somber soliloquy. Even disoriented, little more than an hour since stumbling out from that murky, otherworldly abyss wherein she’d slept those five years in question, she’d know it anywhere.

“If things had continued as they were, today would have been the Millennium Festival...”

Her pace picks up, carrying her towards the Goddess Tower with all the haste she can muster in her hazy, weakened, waterlogged state. In her enthusiasm to find a single friendly face, someone who can explain what’s happened, she stumbles over a stray brick dislodged from the other strewn debris, sending it clattering against the wall.

“ _Halt!_ Who’s there--?”

The woman spins to face her, and her wide-eyed stare freezes Byleth where she leans against the doorway, the both of them momentarily too stunned to speak.

The reality of time’s passage has started to sink in, and in so many ways her student looks so completely changed, despite little development in her physical features. Sure, she’s clad in gaudier royal garb than she’d worn before, her hair in twin braids looped into some new golden, horned crown, but that’s not it. It’s in how _drained_ she looks – Still beautiful as ever, yet haggard, worn thin with the wages of war. Her face looks nearly as gaunt as Hubert’s, her eyes shadowed from exhaustion yet lit with a sort of frenetic need as she gazes back.

“It can’t be… Professor!?” Edelgard asks, incredulously, unsure if her frayed senses can be trusted.

Byleth feels rather put on the spot, lacking any sort of grand entrance or compelling speech to announce herself and calm her worryingly unsteady student, just a forced laugh and a crooked smile as she steps inside. “Uh… hey, El.”

“Is it really you? But I searched everywhere and never found a trace! My teacher… what have you been doing all this time? Where have you been?!” The Emperor demands, approaching her cautiously.

As if Byleth even knows, herself! It wasn’t exactly a memorable place laden with landmarks, it was a mercurial abyss outside of the material plane! “I, uh… I think I… _might_ have died?” she offers with a shrug, her only current conclusion, though a sense of guilt still hangs over her in knowing her words aren’t calming the younger woman down…

_Something deeply-rooted inside her fiercely compels her to try harder, ease her tension, **settle her,** but – No, it wouldn’t be **that.** That wouldn’t be why. That’s silly. El’s not a sub. And Byleth’s not even that certain **what** exactly she is, so..._

“Joking? At a time like this...? You do realize it’s been five years since you disappeared – Do you have ANY idea how guilty I felt, how **_broken_** my heart was?!”

Edelgard can seemingly stand strong no longer, and she falls at Byleth’s feet, her metal greaves scraping hard as her knees hit the cold stone tiles. All her skirts and cape become a bunched-up bundle of bright crimson highlighting this pale, hunched figure, hanging her head and holding herself tight.

_This… This isn’t just exhaustion, or the emotional shock of her return at play, here, is it? She didn’t just fall, this is… Edelgard’s **kneeling for her** , like she’s a… and that would mean Byleth herself is…_

**_Oh._ ** _Okay, uh. Alright. **This is new.** Mildly frightening. But good? But very, very new._

Byleth can only guess as to how she’s managing to seem so calm herself, being in the midst of her own drastic personal revelations, but it’s almost beyond her conscious control: The first thing she knows, she’s bending down, reaching out for Edelgard’s face, and gingerly cupping her cheek. With only two fingers and feather-light force, she tilts the Emperor’s chin upwards towards her, only compassion and confidence in her cornflower eyes once she’s locked her student’s gaze.

“I’m here now, El. It’s alright.”

Some of it comes naturally to her, at first. She tries to think back, trawl her memories to recount times in passing she’d seen dominants attempting similar efforts in hopes of finding something more concrete. But in the meantime, stalling as the tactician within formulates a proper approach, she just… _does,_ and it’s _so keenly bizarre_ to feel herself drawing from a well she’d never even known how to find. An entire new branch of the human experience, lost and left untouched until this point, now revealed for exploration.

_And she’d better explore it fast, because there’s someone else who needs her now._

Edelgard’s red-rimmed eyes begin to shine again, both with a sense of life, and incipient tears. She starts to wince, clearly frustrated with herself for even showing such weakness, and Byleth can’t abide that. Not in her El.

_Her El? ...Is that how she’s thinking now? Wow, this domme stuff sure works quick._

“I’m here for you. You don’t have to worry anymore, okay?” she murmurs, brushing away one of the trailing tracks of saltwater as she repositions her grip, resting a hand atop ivory locks and guiding Edelgard’s head in, resting cushioned against her thigh. It’s a boon for her own anxieties as well, the sheer _rightness_ of setting El there.

“I searched high and low after you vanished,” Edelgard chokes out wetly, “Although there was no proof, I somehow _knew_ you were alive...”

Byleth nods earnestly, the hold she has on Edelgard’s head soon becoming a slow petting motion, fingers brushing through her hair and skimming her scalp. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to worry. But... you honor me in that you did. Thank you, El.”

The praise seems to brook some of the tears, and urges the Emperor back to steadier breaths. “All this time, I led everyone as best I could, and fought with all my heart. It’s been a difficult path to walk alone. But now you’re here, and we can…”

A silence overtakes the Goddess Tower then, the unfinished thought rife with potential. Byleth… she knows she _really_ needs to ask, to address the dragon in the room, as it were. _Not like she’s ever done this before, she has to be **certain** it means what she assumes it means._

Putting a pause to her petting, Byleth brings up Edelgard’s head again in a gentle grip, just on the edge of her crown’s horns, and asks her quietly: “El… is _this_ what you want?”

The Emperor blinks, and not just to clear her eyes. The implication in the mercenary’s tone seems to fly right past her, and she raises an eyebrow.

“This? _...Us?_ For me to be this, for you?” Byleth tries again, clumsily.

Edelgard is slow to respond; it’s as if only now does she realize what she’s done, compelled by her long-stifled instincts thought dead, the dire and all-consuming need to _submit_ compounded from years of strain and untended needs. Her face stains with a splash of pink, and she stalls, expression wavering as an internal battle is fought: one against her humiliation and worry and the simple fear of rejection. _Edelgard wins._

“Yes… my Teacher.”

_Byleth wins too._ Those three words, in this context, send a jolt of _Thoron_ crackling down from her brain and arcing down her veins to every single inch of her, goosebumps raising across her skin. The new frontier they’ve just opened with such a short, simple exchange spreads before her, and it’s tremendous in its scope, causing a stir even in her unbeating heart.

Sure, it might not have been what she was _expecting_ to find at the forlorn monastery this night, but it’s better by magnitudes: She’s just come back from the dead, puzzled out her designation, scored a submissive who happens to be the woman she adores, and to be quite honest, she _kind of_ feels like she could win a war single-handedly in this moment.

But then, rushing off alone isn’t something she’ll be doing anymore.

Byleth crouches down to Edelgard’s level, their equally-awed faces hovering a mere few inches apart.

“Then I’ll have you. And we’ll walk this path together,” she swears, before the distance between their lips is finally closed.

...

Byleth eventually breaks the kiss and slides back from her submissive, her wife-to-be, having made the final moment of her memory a reality again as soon as she’d wandered back into the waking world. Granted, this iteration is a bit shorter, lazier, off-center, and features an accidental bumping of noses in their sleepy states, but that’s no cause for either to be any less content with the tender domesticity. One peaceful moment, before they’ve the obligation to start their hectic day.

_They’ll have that again,_ Byleth promises herself. _Especially when the day of their Ceremony is but a few weeks on the horizon, now. They might have to keep going slow, they might have to take different branches of the path from others, but they won’t be held back from developing their bond by past faults or fears any longer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ghhghhhhhhh... yeah... i know. not good.  
> but hey, at least next chapter actually has explicit sexual content. not like. the big one I want to get around to, but a bit. a prelude.  
> i dunno. i'm. kind of... very out of it lately. more than usual.  
> was gonna delay uploading but it kinda felt weird to get too far off schedule even if it means having no buffer left, and this was such an unnecessary chapter anyway...  
> holiday depression time, let's all try not to sink too badly into the despair we've already got going ooooonnnnnnnnnn


	6. Withdrawal & Succor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a struggle preparing for the royal wedding, to put it lightly. With only a week left, Byleth feels Edelgard deserves at least a little release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only fitting that my first and final uploads of this year be gentle F/F D/s smut, right?  
> ...granted, it's still a very tame form for a tame interim chapter and lame and I'm not a writer, but-- but ANYWAY.  
> bleh. please be gentle and take pity.

Purging Edelgard’s body of years worth of the abhorrent alchemical suppressant stifling her submissive nature proves to be just as arduous a task for the both of them as treating the Emperor’s more subconscious struggles.

Despite having Byleth at her side as much as humanly possible, feasibly providing El the stabilizing presence of her dominant to sate that bare minimum need to have her near, Edelgard still succumbs to routine bouts of tremors, sweating, uncontrolled and random arousal, nausea, irritability, even vomiting, in those early days.

Byleth finds herself _almost_ regretting giving the order to stop taking the foul medicine altogether _–_ the withdrawal symptoms are beyond unpleasant, and watching her submissive tough it out has got something constantly hammering in the protective vestiges of her brain to _stop it_ somehow. _To control the situation, to protect, and heal, and guide away from_ _harm._

Even so, Edelgard _insists_ , repeatedly, that she’s fine, and that they’d both agreed it’s a necessity now that they’re moving forward. Now that they won’t have to hide their dynamic.

It would be _easier_ though, Byleth thinks, if her submissive didn’t keep trying to maintain such an obscenely rigorous daily schedule. Here they are, a mere week from their grand wedding, El still on the mend, and yet she continually attempts to cram herself into all her formal effects and shamble on out into the castle to suffer through meetings she needn’t attend, to personally oversee work that could be delegated, to throw herself at her writing desk signing parchment after parchment. All the while looking like death warmed over.

So, Byleth intervened.

They’d already started on establishing some basic rules lately – discreet ones to test the waters, capable of being upheld without interfering with the Emperor’s day-to-day duties to the country, while still providing Edelgard a passive sense of faithfulness to her dominant to help curb the anxiety. For example, ordering Edelgard to select another crown and ditch the _‘hair spoolies,’_ as Byleth so cheerfully refers to them, as she knows her sub has always loathed the sheer hassle it is to get her hair braided properly and tangled up in her horned headpiece every morning, even with Hubert’s assistance. _That, and… Byleth just l_ _ikes seeing her hair down. She’s allowed some fun of her own!_

With that in mind, tacking on an authoritative mandate of _‘seriously, El, no work until after the wedding’_ wasn’t much of a reach on Byleth’s end. Because Edelgard can technically do that, just take time off whenever she wants. She’s… kind of The Emperor? She’s a _bit of a big deal._

This finds the pair taking a long morning in the royal chambers, still lounging in bed even nearing on noon. Edelgard skims through a preliminary event plan for the coming wedding – the only ‘business’ Byleth is keen on allowing her to undertake at present – while the latter is content to recline, eyes closed, daydreaming and pitching her opinions on prospective decorations and catering.

Every now and again, Byleth can tell her fiancee’s growing antsy in her idleness, and were she anyone else, it might _almost_ be funny just how eager Edelgard is to throw away a perfectly good chance to take it easy.

“...Which would all be well and good were we not hosting foreign representatives, and we can’t be certain our culinary staff can prepare such diverse dishes from their respective homelands without practice, and by extension the requisite ingredients in supply. But to procure them in bulk at such short notice--”

“El.”

Edelgard stops short, letting the parchment droop in her fingers.

“...You’re thinking too much.”

 _One of us has to,_ the Emperor thinks sourly, and she probably should’ve expected that instant twinge of regret for smarting off at her dominant, even internally. _Stronger than usual, too… Perhaps the concoction truly is wearing away._ She’s fully aware she’s putting great stock into ensuring this event is _perfect,_ while Byleth would likely be content to collar her without preamble in a stable or dusty broom cupboard. _Best not give her the_ _idea._

Noticing Edelgard is _STILL_ thinking too much, on account of having _just been_ _reprimanded_ for thinking too much, Byleth undertakes a drastic course of action: Rolling onto her side and lightly _booping_ The Infamous Emperor Of All Adrestia Herself right on the tip of the nose.

“Alright, give me that,” she commands, still warm and affectionate even as she leans into her authority. She takes the leaf of papers from Edelgard’s hands and blindly drops them on the bedside table behind her. Again, that slight amusement at her love’s obsession with her work resurfaces, watching El’s little wince as the discarded documents _slip-slip-sliiiip_ and eventually fall right off the edge into a scattered mess on the floor.

 _Adorable,_ Byleth thinks.

 _And I’d only just finished ordering them alphabetically,_ Edelgard sulks.

The mercenary chuckles and brings her hand back around to rest atop Edelgard’s thigh, right at the borderline of decency where her gown has ridden up. “We’re going to do something about this,” Byleth chuckles, “It’s obvious you’re pent-up, my heart... and now that the symptoms are waning, I think you could stand for a little release, don’t you?”

Sure, they’d fooled around a little here and there in the last month, on the easier days, but rarely would it amount to any more than heavy petting. No matter how strong the random, severe spurts of sexual need, Byleth fought to maintain her firm stance that they wouldn’t go any further should she not be able to confirm Edelgard’s legitimate consent, rather than the demands of a manic state brought on by the sickness.

Edelgard loathed each time: She’d cried, pleaded shamelessly, clung tight to her dominant, crudely cursed her a time or two, even – but when the wave would pass and her sensibility returned, each time she’d only be reaffirmed in her choice to entrust herself to Byleth beyond all others.

So, when Byleth extends the offer now, Edelgard’s single-minded focus on productivity suffers a crushing blow. “It… has been a while, My Teacher, that’s true.”

What she _wants_ to say is more akin to _‘oh please, I hunger for the succor of your touch like an orphan waif for a crumb of bread,’_ something to that effect, but such exclamations are a far better fit for the tawdry works of the opera house in the Mittelfrank company’s off-season. Not… the Imperial Bedchambers.

Fortunately, General Eisner is by now a consummate professional in the art of translating Hresvelgese, and easily surmises the assent for what it is.

“There you go. No need to be modest with me, El.” She gives her fiancee’s thigh a ginger squeeze, happy with the softness she can feel over the muscle these days, compared to the stark tone of their bodies on wartime rations. “Since you’ve been so good for me--” _(_ _And here, Edelgard’s eyes slip shut, and she basks in the warmth of the praise)_ “...How would you like it? Something new?”

It’s on that proposition where the Emperor trips over another stumbling block, even if a small one: She hadn’t actually considered the _doing_ so much as the _concept of doing._ “I’m actually… not quite sure, My Teacher. I still want more than anything to _progress,_ to be well prepared for our… erm. You know. In a week’s time.”

Byleth _does_ know, but again, propriety dictates one does not simply come out and say, ‘ _when you test my body and mind in a heated night of passionate carnality, binding me tight and making love as domme and collared sub.’_ Again, perhaps a bit of paraphrasing in the translation, but the gist is understood.

Knowing not what ridiculous words her fiancee’s putting in her mouth, mentally-speaking, Edelgard continues. “But, you know as well as I certain aspects can be… difficult for me to work around, in attempting to finally achieve that headspace; if there’s anything I could do to advance in that regard...”

She half-expects Byleth to scold her for still wanting to be _productive_ even in the course of trying to get off with this roundabout method, but killing two birds with one stone seems enough for her former Professor, who just shakes her head at the foolishness but makes no overtures to dismiss the suggestion.

“There you go, always looking forward, always trying to prepare, and prepare… That’s my El,” she says, with a mask of playful sarcasm. “But, I think that’s a good idea. And I can think of one lesson we can touch on. Make headway on getting you to headspace.” Byleth pauses to see if she’s won a reaction with her cheap wordplay, and beams once Edelgard makes a short, silent laugh through her nose.

“We both know you’ve had… issues, about your confidence, because of those old memories. Namely that being seen on your knees can still make you anxious, feel weak, feel wrong from spending so much time playing the wrong part… So, how about this?” Byleth begins, sitting up and dragging her eyes around the room. “My only order right now: I want you to kneel for me, El, and touch yourself at my command. But the catch is – so you won’t be scared, this time, I won’t watch. I’ve got to get ready for the day, after all,” she proposes, the new strategy assembling itself on the fly.

“You… You won’t look?” It’s not exactly what Edelgard was expecting, rather imagining something with those ribbons she knows Byleth keeps tucked away, to test her with less-threatening restraint, or exploring impact sensations, _et cetera,_ but neither can she deny the logic behind the scenario. It just strikes her as confusing – She’s heard it so often the other way around, where someone in her place is expected to make a show of it for their partner’s enjoyment. Leave it to Byleth to spin things to an unpredictable angle. “How would you even know if I were truly on my knees, then?”

Byleth glances back over, oozing that utter certainty of Edelgard’s submission, and her heart does flips in its cage. “I don’t need to look. I _know_ you’ll do it for me, El. So it’s alright if I don’t see.”

Alright, perhaps there’s something more instinctively arousing about this idea than the mere urge to ease her nerves, after all. _The fact I can feel those instincts at all is a testament,_ she thinks, swallowing some of the typical hesitation and giving a simple nod. “Then… if that’s your lesson for today, My Teacher, shall I…?”

Cheerful in seeing Edelgard’s eagerness to ‘learn,’ Byleth gives a helping hand by reaching over and unbuttoning her fiancee’s gown for her. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll tell you when to start, love.” Pulling the loose-fit garment up and away, Byleth folds up last night’s _(adorable!)_ rose-pink nightgown and hops off the bed to leave it with the laundry.

On a normal day, the prospect of Byleth turning her back on Edelgard would fill the latter with unease, not _excitement,_ but these are extenuating circumstances! It’s odd, this contradictory sense of being put on the spot, even while not being watched… Edelgard eases herself up from her recline and shuffles to the edge of the bed. There, she nervously adopts an amateurish stance – _not the type she should’ve been taught in etiquette classes by far_ – and it’s as if she can feel her dominant’s hand on her, moving her, even without being touched.

_It’s still so odd. And Edelgard finds it, to phrase it bluntly, **hot.**_

Byleth doesn’t turn back to face her, though it’s evident she’s waiting to begin her busywork until all the sounds of rustling on the sheets have slowed. “So, is it like I asked? Are you kneeling for me, El?”

The pause stretches longer than it reasonably should.

“...Yes.” _Flames, this shouldn’t be so hard to say! It’s just… Sitting, in a different sort of way. Having her body in a certain pose, it doesn’t MEAN anything negative about who she is, what she’s capable of. It won’t make Byleth think any less of her, or treat her as if she’s weak, incapable, unworthy._

“That’s good. I’m proud of you.”

Quite the opposite of ‘thinking less,’ it would seem.

“So I want you to _feel good_ today, my heart. Especially when you’re doing so well already,” Byleth says coolly, beginning to change over by her wardrobe as she instructs, “So, you’re going to touch yourself for me, okay? Right now. Don’t you let any of those other thoughts in.”

It always floors her, Byleth’s seamless fluctuation between being the dry, goofy, eccentric nose-booping type, and her effortless air of command – like she was truly born for the purpose.

Edelgard’s left hand dangles awkwardly at her side, while her right inches to her navel, tracing ever-downward until it skims a trimmed patch of ivory. Further still, to her lips, already showing a sheen of dampness.

 _That’s… quick,_ she realizes as she makes her timid first stroke, _it typically takes so much more effort… It’s usually a while before Byleth and herself can stimulate this sort of physical reaction..._

Realizing then that in her pondering, she’d forgotten to give a response, Edelgard gives a rushed “A-ah, yes, My Teacher.” Her voice betrays her arousal, and she looks back to the wardrobe upon hearing another satisfied laugh from the Professor.

“You sound like you’re enjoying yourself already. I’m glad. Maybe a little dejected it’s working faster _without_ me directly involved…” she teases as she tugs on a spruce-blue tunic for the day. _Edelgard can plainly see her dumb, jokey smile in the angled reflection from the vanity._ “But I know it just means you’re healing. Imagine it, El. Soon, you’ll be able to feel like this whenever you want. Even better, I hope.” She takes a break to start shimmying into one of her countless pairs of leggings, then inquires, “Are you using both hands, or one?”

“Er, j-just the one… at present?” Edelgard pipes up, even as she begins to dip a finger, then two, inside her own wet warmth. It does feel sort of silly, come to think of it, just leaving her other arm hanging there. _More ‘silly’ than the overall posture she’s adopted, actually… She’s… there’s usually much more shame by now! There’s usually an echo of her own voice, demanding she stand tall and proud! Of Volkhard’s, claiming for an Emperor to kneel is tantamount to death of their power._

Instead, she’s… well, she’s still rather on edge from residual stress, but it feels so much easier than usual to lend herself to Byleth’s will, hang on her every intonation while toying with herself.

“Well, I think you deserve a bit more attention than that,” Byleth says, spinning in place and-- And… still not looking her way, merely crossing over in front of the bed, eyes locked forward onto a storage rack on the room’s far end. As she passes, she blindly reaches and runs a hand gently over Edelgard’s shoulder… and then on she walks. “Specifically, I’d guess your clit could use some attention too, right? Let’s have you take care of that with the other. Sound good?”

Sure, ‘sound good,’ she asks, as if she’s not flooding the question with the sense of an absolute command, which Edelgard drinks up greedily. “As you… hah… As you wish, My Teacher.” And as Byleth wishes, the Emperor obeys, bringing her left hand to bear just above her slit. While her right has grown more adventurous in her enthusiasm, now probing deeply in short juts, she’s still slow and methodical in tapping the pad of her middle-left to her hood and rubbing out a slow circle to tease out its treasure.

Byleth hums, contemplative, as if simply standing around wondering what she’d like for lunch today rather than enjoying the sordid gasping symphony of her lover jilling off just behind her. “Speaking of little steps we can take: We should try working on other titles – just while you’ve reminded me. I’m sure there are some we can find that you’ll like.”

At the time, Byleth had been curious as to Edelgard’s continued affectation of the title _‘My Teacher’_ for her after their reunion, despite neither of them holding a place at the now-defunct Academy by that point in time, but the purpose became clear soon enough.

For so long as she was to continue hiding her presentation as a submissive, she could not simply traipse around freely calling Byleth a ‘Ma’am,’ or a ‘Mistress,’ or ‘My lady.’ As the Emperor, practically all titles of reverence shown for someone perceived as lesser in rank would out her – save for acknowledging one relevant position Byleth held. After all… Byleth _was_ her Teacher, her guiding hand.

_Guiding her hand between her legs, as it happens. Fidgety fingers now stoking a campfire into a blaze._

“Wha-hah… What would you have me say, how shuh… How should I refer to you?” Edelgard asks breathy and brokenly, the bed lightly creaking beneath her as a sharp bolt of pleasure jerks her limbs.

“Just starting out, let’s stick with something like we already have. One that won’t make you feel lesser, or scared if others hear. Something you can use in public – _Oh,_ and switch hands, by the way?”

The abrupt command comes at her hard and fast, setting her off-balance as she speeds to comply. She knows Byleth can _hear_ her fumbling, her soft huff of frustration at losing some of her sexual momentum, and is abashed at her Teacher’s little laugh. _She’s being teased, yet that… that feels nice? All these years afraid of missing a step, falling out of character, failing to uphold the mask, but when it’s her, being laid so bare… isn’t a threat._

Byleth smooths out her casual clothing choice for the day, and grabs a rag, her sword, and an oilstone. Still not looking, still not _watching_ Edelgard hopelessly chase sexual release, the Professor sits on the corner of the bed within arm’s reach, and casually begins tending to the simple chore of weapon maintenance.

“I thought of one that might work, the other night. I want to know how you feel about it. How about… ‘Empress?’ After all, I _am_ going to be your Empress… am I not?” She unsheathes her blade and starts to wet her stone. “Well, Empress-consort, but… still. Ignoring how you’ll technically outrank me nonetheless.”

‘Empress’…? It’s certainly a show of deference in most cases, an acknowledgment of authority well-deserved, and plausibly-deniable, much like Teacher – but more importantly than keeping covert, the mere thought of it on her tongue, imagining her own voice forming the syllables…

“Empress–!” _Oh. She wasn’t just imagining. Her mind is having trouble compartmentalizing, now that she’s three-fingers deep in herself and throbbing, rolling over her clit in rough circles._ The rosy flush tinting her features, for once, has nothing to do with humiliation. It just feels _right,_ to call Byleth by a title of even greater reverence.

The woman herself must agree, because she gives a contented hum, nonverbal affirmation that has Edelgard’s pace grow just short of feverish. “Mm-hmm. Sounds good to me. Hey, El?” Byleth draws her attention, and she lolls her neck to watch her fiancee from behind, hovering her sword over the stone in her lap. “...Match my rhythm. And make sure to curl your fingers up at the end – you always like when I do that.”

With the next simple command handed out, Byleth begins to grind out a slow, steady swipe against the stone, and Edelgard’s breakneck speed grinds to a similar sluggishness, groaning in weak dismay at delaying her climax another minute. She wants to pick it back up, plunge faster, but the prospect of disobedience only vaguely skirts the borders of her consciousness. _Why would she?_

Right at the end of the motion, Byleth gives a sudden speedy swipe in her sharpening, and Edelgard follows with a swift plunge, a steep curl, a flaring in the energy culminated low in her stomach. The cry she makes seems to satisfy her Teacher, who turns the process into a cycle, a slow drag and a flick, over and over and _over,_ tending her sword as sweetly if it were her hands tending her beloved.

Just a foot away, the Emperor wobbles in her posture as she fucks into herself at Byleth’s behest, endurance on the verge of yielding to the cumulative tension and letting the sensation explode through her there and then. _She could, she should, Byleth wants her to, but there’s more. Why is it, all of a sudden, she wants… In spite of herself, she wants something else before she can._

“My T- My… Empress… Please, look at me,” she urges Byleth, who maintains her sword maintenance all the while.

Byleth’s smile then, as she tilts her head aside but not enough to see, is a familiar one: That pride in a successful tactic coming to fruition during a training exercise, or a student succeeding their exams.

“You _want_ me to look? Are you sure?” she asks in return, angling more for emphasis than clarification. “I don’t want to ruin this for you, not when you’re so close. And you _are_ close, right, El?”

 _She wants to be brave. She wants to grow stronger. She wants to be seen._ Edelgard nods a few times, frantically, so fast it’s a surprise her head doesn’t rattle. “Wa-want you to… see me…”

 _WHY does she want Byleth to watch?_ This is – it’s new, it’s strange, she doesn’t understand, yet the barely-constrained heat within her burns brighter as Byleth bundles away her tools and turns, stepping up to round the bed and stand right in front of the naked, kneeling, shamelessly masturbating Emperor.

The reflexive prickles of dread in Edelgard’s mind as Byleth’s eyes rove her quivering form are a footnote compared to the new and novel allure of basking in her approval for holding this position: seeing her Teacher, her Empress, so pleased that she’s kneeling for her...

_One of the only times she’s ever done so on purpose, not in duress, not a stress reaction, and now – not succumbing to that pervasive sense of weakness. She’s so close, now. She knows she’s not under-under, but Flames, she’s dipping her toes in the pool, and she wants to learn to swim, and soon, so soon she will..._

“You’ve done _amazingly,_ El,” Byleth grins down at her, stepping flush with the bed’s edge and bringing her arms around the Emperor’s shoulders. “You’re working so hard, and you’ve come so far, now. You’ll be ready in time…” she affirms, cradling Edelgard’s sweating, gasping face tight into her chest, hot skin against fresh-washed, familiar-scented twill cotton. “Go on, my heart. You can cum now, okay?”

Edelgard’s ministrations have only quickened since her Teacher freed her from the methodical timing of her sword-strokes, and the encouragement is the final push it takes for the blistering liquid heat within to turn volcanic, spilling out of her in a wet rush as she hits her climax. Her staggered, keening moans are muffled by Byleth’s ample bust, and the mercenary just hugs her there, pleased as can be to watch Edelgard find pleasure where there’d been only pressure.

The deftness of her fingers fails her once the flurry of energy is well and truly spent, and Edelgard slips them loose of herself, soaked and slick, still clenching and tensing at air afterwards in the aftershocks. Limply, she sinks more bodily into Byleth’s grip, who laughs and crawls up onto the bed beside her, gathering her up and helping pull her back to the pillows. _Cleanup can wait a minute,_ Byleth figures. _Snuggles now._

Some few minutes pass in that post-orgasmic fog before Edelgard feels awake and aware enough to assess her surroundings, and is happy to find herself still held by her… _Empress._

_Yes. She’s really quite starting to like that word, now._

“Ah, thank you, Empress… that was… enlightening,” Edelgard sighs, evidently not requiring much recovery to find her voice again. She lets her head flop aside on the pillow, shimmying a bit to keep her disheveled hair from her face. Her beloved is there, watching her, still as fond as ever even after seeing her do something she’d never thought her own stilted pride would allow.

“Still feel like working today?” Byleth asks, uncoupling one arm from her sideways hug to help finish fixing her fiancee’s tousled locks out of her face. “Want me to gather up those papers? We could always review the seating arrangements for a fourth time…” She even goes as far as to roll aside, looking off at the mess of papers on the floor to add to the jest.

Edelgard makes a silent snort of a laugh through her nose, shaking her head, feeling foolish for overworking when she could have just had… _this._

“I’ll… I believe I’ll be taking a brief respite from my duties. Possibly even a nap.“

“Yes, you will,” murmurs Byleth, returning to lay her lips to Edelgard’s forehead. “Yes you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeahhh, I know, insufficient, but... that's just my level of writing quality or lack thereoooooof.  
> tonight, let's push 2020 in a hole and bury it forever. and also threaten 2021 with a knife if it acts up.  
> bleep bloop


	7. A Breath before the Plunge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dressing rooms of Enbarr's Grand Cathedral, two brides prepare for a ceremony months in the making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should have done more extended and varied conversations here but then I was like "oh, uh, that's. a lot of people. in one room. times two. oops" and kind of... settled on making it as mostly-solid as I could. Which, uh. Hopefully. Hopefully holds up. Maybe. 
> 
> ...I dunno. just. dumb pre-wedding preparation fluff stuff is all. nyeh.

_Less than a half-hour, now._

Less than half an hour remains ‘til the ceremony begins in earnest, and Edelgard _swears_ she is going to sweat right through her dress.

She’s stood tall at the fore of an army three-thousand strong and given empowering speeches, she’s faced the scrutinizing eyes of hundreds of noblemen and told them she would pull down their gilded establishment before their very eyes. She’s traded verbal barbs with dragons. All of these things, she has done, and survived.

But right now she’s still quite tempted to bolt like a frightened doe, and it’s only Hubert’s hands working through her hair and the impenetrable blockade of friends packing the room that keep her here in the chair before the mirror.

_Weddings are therefore, objectively, more terrifying than dragons. This is now a fact she can state with certitude. It will be documented for the historical record._

“I’m sure it will go just fine,” assures Marianne, from her plush seat in the corner.

The brides’ respective dressing rooms here in the chapel initially posed a rather tricky proposition: When the majority of the honored guests are friends of both, who should mingle where beforehand for the sake of encouragement? At first, it began by gender, but that was quickly stricken once both Edelgard and Byleth were clothed and decent – they hadn’t exactly intended to exclude their male friends outright, and it’s not like Hubert hasn’t already seen everything there is to see in his time as a retainer.

In the end, the pre-wedding parties were split in the only logical fashion: The dominants to Byleth’s room, and the submissives, to congregate with Edelgard. It’s a workable solution, albeit with some unintended side effects: Some of them on the Emperor’s side looking very uncomfortable with the room’s lack of protocol to follow, or cushions to kneel on, despite there being not a single dom-bone in their collective bodies to encourage kneeling _for._

“Y-yeah,” offers Bernadetta, fidgeting with the end of the traditional Brigidi braid she’s adopted. “I mean, Byleth’s The Professor! She’s always known how to organize us, right? So, um, so a wedding can’t be that different! ...Right? I’m right, right?”

“Tactical formations were part of a mercenary’s education,” Edelgard chuckles halfheartedly, “but I can’t say the same for glamorous event planning. They might be a bit too disparate for the skills to transfer.”

Folding his arms behind his head, Felix reclines against the back wall, kicking his booted heel against the baseboard. “Why? Still arranging a few sensible people to rein in some bloodthirsty horde.” He sniffs. “Only difference is somebody’s squeezed this one into suits and gowns.”

_Where the obligatory invites were concerned? The aristocracy who still believed themselves entitled enough to warrant attendance and raise a ruckus if they were denied? Edelgard can’t exactly disagree with the imagery._

Marianne cups a hand over her lips to hide a shy smile at Felix’s trademark crabbiness and shoots him a knowing look. He just rolls his eyes with a _‘Tch.’_

“Fair enough,” Edelgard sighs sinking lower in her seat, “but perhaps we could refrain from reminding me of just how dangerous many of those noble guests are to our stability? I’m already on edge as it is…”

“Oh, s-sorry, Edelgard!” Bernadetta stammers, at the same time Marianne immediately fires off an “I’m sorry, Your Majesty!” at arrow-speed.

It’s almost humorous, and Edelgard ponders if the excessive politeness is just a product of their personalities alone, or if they’ve not yet internalized the revelation that she’s just as much a submissive as them, despite her years of feigning otherwise.

Only now that they’re having their unofficial reunion does Edelgard realize just how late she is to the proverbial party – nearly every one of the other submissives in the room have all taken a collar by now, or the regional equivalent in Bernadetta’s case, through her new Brigidi prayer marks.

Felix and Marianne both sport collars gifted by Claude and Hilda respectively – even if the queen did all the craftwork for both – despite the tradition not being observed across the border. Sylvain might still be swapping stand-in accessories as needed, but anyone in the know is familiar with their intention.

Even Hubert, she observes in the mirror as he pulls back from brushing her hair, has already traded up to that leather band Ferdinand had hidden away until today, now that he’ll no longer need to sustain the illusion of Edelgard’s ownership. Anxieties of the day aside, she’s quite glad to know that her special day also gets to hold a meaning of its own to her oldest friend.

“We could, um, we could talk about stuff you’re looking forward to now!” suggests Bernie, after a moment’s contemplation. “You know, now that you and the Professor are together-together! Like what makes you happy about her as your domme! Stuff you guys had to hide before!”

Marianne brightens visibly at the prospect of a happier, more optimistic topic as well. “What a lovely idea! What sort of things were you thinking?”

Well, heck. Bernie hadn’t thought THAT far. “Oh, geez. Um. Hold on, um…! Like – Does Byleth have any nice special pet names for you that you really like? Petra and Dorothea sometimes call me their little _Seelie_ or _Sylph_... b-but, that’s more of a Brigid thing…”

_And if that’s not utterly adorable in and of itself._ Edelgard smiles. Those two have always doted on Bernadetta since the Officer’s Academy, since back when they simply claimed to be a protective pair of friends looking out for a nervous sub in need. _‘We’re just keeping an eye on her! Making sure no nasty MEAN dominants bother her, okay?’_ Dorothea had sworn, only for she and Petra to coldly ward off any and every other potential suitor for _years_ before finally admitting they wanted to keep her for themselves. For someone so well-versed in operatic tropes, she wondered how Dorothea bumbled straight into that cliched storyline of the oblivious, pining dominant.

“Hilda sometimes liked calling me her Bluebird, and that was even before I was _Bird-singer_ to the Almyrans…” Marianne adds helpfully, hoping to stir the conversational pot.

The men in the room at present are thoroughly unhelpful. Felix grunts dismissively, Hubert coughs and returns to his hair-brushing to mask his own bashful thoughts, and Sylvain has learned enough self-respect in recent years not to say his _personal_ saucy favorite out loud.

“Got nothing for ya,” Hapi tosses in with a click of her tongue, talking with her mouth half-full of some chewy candied confection she’d swiped off the banquet tables. “Coco flip-flops too much for a fave to stick, ‘n Yuri-bird’s, like, too fancy to use the cutesy stuff a bunch.”

All this has given Edelgard plenty to ponder, but… for all she wracks her brain, an outright favorite is hard to discern. “I’ve… There are some I rather like the sound of, in theory, but we’ve kept covert for so long… Byleth often avoided them out of fear she’d let it slip by accident some day, at an inopportune time.”

She places her hands in her lap, pinching at some ornate lattice of golden lace near the waistline of her dress. “And some are a bit embarrassing… At the Academy I’d always wanted to hear her call me _her Student_ in… Ahem. In _that_ tone of voice, you can imagine, but that was only a brief fantasy. Then, there was _Princess,_ as in, to be _her Princess,_ but…” She allows herself a faint smile, shaking her head and making Hubert’s job harder. “It would feel too awkward now, as the Emperor.”

Yes, it’s embarrassing to speak on such matters, but… But it’s strange, it’s foreign, just how much more at ease Edelgard feels disclosing these personal quirks and secrets now. The dread she once felt is greatly mitigated by the fact she’s doing so among trusted allies, true, but a year prior she’d have already choked. Has… has she really come so far?

“Also, I’ve always liked the clean, simplistic sound of… ‘Mine.’ Er. That is, ‘mine,’ as in hers,” Edelgard tries to explain, feeling increasingly foolish as she bungles the basic phrasing. “That she would call me hers, but she would SAY ‘Mine’ – _you understand what I’m saying._ Something to imply that gentle possessiveness...”

A few polite chuckles here and there, but followed by nods of assent and words of encouragement all around. The sorts of options the Emperor is fielding are far from the most exotic, but there’s a communal understanding that she’ll need some time to catch up – to conscientiously expand her comfort zone.

Unfortunately, in trying to join the others in wondering how the royal couple’s experience might evolve, Sylvain is stricken with the uncharacteristic mental imagery of their goofy, stoic Professor trying to act like one of those surly, hypersexual aggro-dominants, gruffly calling Edelgard her ‘bitch,’ and the dissonance is so ludicrous he can’t control a little snort. “S-sorry, no, that’s great. You two’ll work something out.”

The door is bumped open with a grunt, and a slick-haired Balthus leans into the doorway, packed into a waistcoat a size too small for his bulk. “Uh, hey guys, heads up that it’s starting soon.” He thumbs back at the hall behind him. “Arnault’s about to start singin’, so just a few minutes until we’ve all gotta get moving.”

“DID YOU TELL THEM?”

“I’m telling them!” Balthus shouts back at Annette, further down at the other end of the hallway, who helps coordinate the miscellaneous unoccupied submissives formed into a clumsy chain of messenger pigeons, stretching all the way to the dominants’ dressing room across the cathedral.

Why in the world her advisors were so insistent she and Byleth use such a… large, religiously-tinted venue for their grand ceremony rather than a smaller, but secular location had been another point of contention. At least the commission to replace the grand stained-glass triptych of Lady Seiros spanning the chapel’s rear wall with a simple rendition of the Adrestian Eagle had been completed in time; Edelgard had NO intention of being taken by Byleth under the scrutinizing eye of the Nabatean against whom she’d waged a costly war.

Though… in hindsight, she is _KIND OF_ marrying the vessel of the Goddess, that very same Goddess around whom that entire misguided Church had been centered. _Funny how that works._ Are people going to start rumors about her hypocrisy? Or assume she’s been converted after all this time? Will Byleth’s legitimacy be called into question, perhaps as some last-ditch ruse by an undercover Church asset to seize control over – _Flames, these are thoughts for another day._

Edelgard stands from her stool before the mirror, allows Hubert to futz and fix up her dress one last time, and sizes up her reflection. She can’t fool herself into thinking she’s anything less than antsy, but as long as Byleth is there to calm her up there… then that’s all that matters. This day is theirs.

_The hour has come. She’s going to go get that collar, and not a soul in Fódlan is going to stop her._

* * *

A resounding cry of _“What do you MEAN ‘never!?’”_ echoes down the long stone corridors outside of Byleth’s dressing room, and turns the head of many a royal guardsman.

Within, a befuddled Byleth fidgets with the scabbard of her ceremonial sword, looking sheepishly back up at the crowd of dominants who used to be her humble students. All staring at her like they’ve seen a ghost.

“I just… it always seemed too dehumanizing, you know? Isn’t it, like, something you’d say to a cat or dog? I’d used it for the cats back at the Monastery, so I just thought it would be patronizing…”

Hilda groans, giving the future Empress-consort the most pitying of looks. “Oh, honey. You really ARE a baby domme.”

“Teach. Prof. Look,” says Claude, lightly grabbing Byleth by one padded pauldron of her wedding-day regalia, “I’m telling you here and now, you’re gonna want to use it – _tonight,_ especially. It’s like, the Heroes Relic of pet names. It’s that fancy-pants Sword of the Creator you used’ta have, in praise form.”

“I mean, it’s true?” Hilda adds, “My Mari practically _creams herself_ when I drop it, and that’s only for the warm-up.”

_Okay, not information I necessarily needed, but good for you, Marianne,_ Byleth thinks in a rush.

“The first time I employed it with Hubert – or rather, the relevant equivalent in our case – I’ll say we had similar results,” says Ferdinand proudly, puffing his chest so hard he flutters his cravat.

Mercedes happens to pass by the doorway on her way back to the kitchens (which she’s commandeered, to the surprise of none and the relief of most) and offers her take as well. “Sylvain always makes the cutest sigh when I say it…!”

From Yuri in the corner, cleaning beneath his immaculate nails with the point of a thin dagger: “Hapi sighs too, which is kind of an issue for us–“

“Alright, alright, point taken…!” Byleth stammers, waving the topic away. The students have truly become the masters. Or... mistresses, on a case-by-case basis. “I’ll… give it a try. For El.”

The crowd gathered in the room either fawn or smile knowingly, none having grown tired of seeing their once nigh-emotionless teacher lit up with that special sort of lovestruck determination, her adoration of her submissive fueling her strength.

“...Still nervous, though.”

Turning from the wall-length mirror she’s using to double-check her ponytail, Petra pumps her fist. “You have nothing worth fearing, Professor! It is clear that you are to be dominating Edelgard with all of your love!”

The backdrop of orchestral musing wafting in from the main hall hits a crescendo for their current number, and Dorothea gasps. In a hurry, she leans in to the mirror and puts the finishing touches on her makeup. “Well, folks, that’s my cue. I’ll go get them warmed up for you, Professor, so you’d better do Edie justice out there.” She winks at Byleth, then steals a kiss from Petra on the way out the door.

Hilda affords a look up from some jewelry she’s fiddling with in her lap. “Hey, y’know, maybe _somebody_ should go run down and tell the subs we’re about ready to start!” she says, clearly trying to passively nudge someone else to go do the busywork in what could almost constitute an order.

The issue is, addressing a room exclusively full of other dominants in that _tone_ means the request falls flat on its face. Claude snickers at her attempt.

“...Ugh, FINE.” Hilda pushes up out of her poofy armchair, “I guess I have to do everything myself.” Immediately following said complaint, she wanders out of the room to snag the first submissive she can find in the halls and trick them into sending the message along instead. Herself indeed.

“Did I say nervous? ...Make that ‘very nervous,’” Byleth sighs, beginning to wonder if this is how Bernadetta feels all the time. “What happens if I get it wrong? Or forget my vows, what if I can’t get the collar on right, and everyone sees…? What if I make it too tight?”

Claude can’t deny a slight amusement at the prospect of Fódlan’s greatest formal event of the season being fumbled, but he reins it in. After all, he likes to consider himself friends with the Teach, he’s still the _tiniest_ bit afraid of Edelgard – same as anyone else – and keeping the Emperor in a good mood has longterm international effects on foreign policy, so he’s really doing the world a favor by offering advice. Go him.

“Well, FIRST of all, you’re gonna want to keep two fingers underneath as a rule of thumb. Y’don’t wanna choke out the Emperor of all Adrestia live on stage,” he says, which floods Byleth’s brain with another barrage of terrible possibilities.

“I don’t even want to think about _hurting_ her while I’m doing it…!”

“Then you can thank your lucky stars we’re not in Olden Faerghus,” Yuri muses aloud, “Go back a few hundred years under the short-lived Sheridan regency, and for a time they used to publicly brand their submissives for ceremonies like this.”

This is NOT helping, and Byleth cringes harder! _Maybe it’s good they’re systematically wiping out archaic Kingdom influence after all._

Before anyone else can unintentionally unsettle the good General Eisner, there’s a rap of knuckles on the open door, and a jovial knight shows himself in.

“Hello, hello, everyone! We’ll be starting any minute,” announces Alois, cutting through the crowd in the cramped room and just stopping short of ruffling Byleth’s hair. “Time for our _Empress_ to _impress!_ Ha!”

A peal of groans break out all around, but Byleth needed that, truth be told. The cheesy humor of her father’s old squire slices through the glut of tension she’d gone and let build up, giving her a chance to breathe.

“I can’t say whether I’ll impress the public, but… as long as El’s happy, I’ll be satisfied.”

As the majority of the other dominants file out towards the main hall to find their seats, submissives, or both, Alois lowers his boisterous tone to a rare, softer sentimentality. “Without a doubt, she will be. I hope you know I do mean it when I say Captain Jeralt would be proud…”

And in a flash, it’s gone again, and he roughly claps her on the back with a cheer. “Now, let’s go get you two married!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno. Next chapter's taking longer, 'cuz it IS longer, so... so this was fluff! Fluff, and then stuff, and then after that? Porn! ...That's, like, that's good, right? Is everyone okay with that? 
> 
> ugh i dunno i need more writing energyyyyyyy... and. and talent. but also energy. talentergy. 
> 
> pls be gentle to me.


	8. Band of Leather, Band of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After much plotting, planning, strife and trepidation, the day has finally arrived: The royal wedding between Her Majesty Edelgard von Hresvelg, and the acting General Byleth Eisner. A marriage ceremony long awaited -- and unbeknownst to the public, a collaring as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, here we go. hope, um. hope this is decent-ish. approval is nice. i like approval.  
> no more stalling, though, Edelgard would kill me if I kept rambling and delaying her big day any longer

Coinciding with a triumphant note from the organ and a short peal of applause, the brides of the hour enter the chapel of Enbarr’s Grand Cathedral through opposite doors in the rear. They stop to meet in the middle of the aisle, warring with every urge they each have to stand there idly and just _admire_ the other for hours on end.

Byleth’s been clad in an augmented iteration of her formal dress uniform, one she rarely bothers to wear even in her position as General, typically preferring casual, breathable, combat-prudent attire. Today, though, she’s given over to spectacle, and allowed their friends to spruce her up – a doublet and tight trousers in a deep aegean blue, lent color by their bright golden buttons and embroidery on the epaulettes, as well as the stark red accents on the sleeves and neck. Her ceremonial sword is fitted firm to her side in its gilded scabbard. She’s sporting a diagonal sash, laden top to bottom with a selection gaudy, dangly war medals she’d retroactively earned, though the poofy cravat Ferdinand insisted on lending her has been mysteriously misplaced during her trip from the dressing rooms. Her black, thigh-high boots are polished to a ridiculous sheen, her gloves crisply ironed.

Byleth’s charmingly unruly hair has been tied back in a low ponytail for this event, even if her bangs and the shaggy edges over her ears are still roaming wild and free. To hold it, she’d gone and borrowed a plain red ribbon for the occasion, a memento from Edelgard’s old stock and a nod to their Academy days.

_She’d… really wanted to wear her favorite coat draped over her shoulders, too, same as she’d done back then, but alas, she was outvoted. Can’t domme your way out of everything, it seems._

Edelgard was not spared a sprucing-up, herself. The leader of her unofficial ‘official’ fashion consultant division – which is to say, Dorothea – cited the necessity of _theatrical subtext_ , and proposed that to carry the intended message of unquestioned strength in Edelgard’s leadership, her attire be cast similarly to her usual Emperor’s apparel for easy visual recognition. Ergo, rather than a vision in white, she… well, if anyone were to expect the Adrestian Monarch to be wed in anything but red, they’re quite the fool.

The replica dress was modified in several ways. Firstly, and quite crucially, cutting down from a high neckline to a far deeper one, baring her throat for reasons the general public have yet to surmise. Her hefty cape she once wore into battle is discarded from the design, instead opting for a sweeping train behind her, a modest length trailing down from the skirts in back. _And to think, people once claimed the cape wasn’t pragmatic; she’ll be fortunate she doesn’t tangle this blasted thing underfoot._

The overall core of the dress remained mostly untouched, although out of a personal, sentimental desire to at least _slightly_ appeal to the classical, archetypal vision of a bride – _and if she’s honest, hopefully appeal to Byleth’s eye more than anything else_ – she’d requested the flat, matte reds be balanced out with a few broad splashes of pure white, enough so to distinguish it from her normal wear, while not disturbing its recognition.

The nitpicking over the dress had been the hardest part, the rest was less an ordeal. The clunky, armored boots she’d usually adhered to beneath her skirts are thankfully replaced with shiny espadrilles and sheer stockings, much easier to walk in. _She’d refused to risk full heels; if the bridal train is already an added tripping risk, heels at a time like this would be inviting disaster._

That standing restriction Byleth had placed on her hairstyle’s been rescinded for the sake of the occasion, and once again Edelgard wears her it braided up and curled into its horned crown, an obvious symbol of her power, especially to all foreign dignitaries familiar with the piece. _Plus, it keeps her hair from obscuring her neck, a crucial factor._ While she was adamant to keep her gloves, not wishing to spoil her appearance with her grisly scars, she still wears atop them the beautiful ring Byleth had gifted her at the war’s end. That promise of their connection, even if it had taken this long to finally act upon it.

As with the dress rehearsal, Byleth chivalrously extends a crooked arm and Edelgard grabs on, escorted up the long stretch to the stairs. Walking side-by-side, rather than one waiting for the other, had been yet another of those many decisions of theirs to couch the expectations and reactions to the event, to place emphasis on their equality, especially with the dramatic reveal they intend to foist upon the world.

They split as they climb to the altar, arranged to flank the officiant priestess at the pulpit on the elevated plateau above, and standing before a long wooden table bearing two ornate boxes, one for each.

Said priestess has been spinning up her speech ever since Dorothea took her bow, and has thankfully cleared the drab bulk of the introduction honoring long-dead lieges and talking up what few traditions they haven’t deliberately violated with their groundbreaking act of defiance.

“...that brings us here today, friends and honored guests, Fódlaner and foreigner, to witness and honor the confirmation of a loving and powerful union. A bond between not only faithful brides, but between an Emperor and her Empress, between a submissive and her dominant…”

The crowd erupts into susurration, most of the whispers concentrated further towards the rear, where bulk of the ‘obligation’ invitees are corralled. Those distant enough not to have _any_ sort of clue that this twist of all twists was coming, and are sent reeling with the implication.

Edelgard has long since ceased to hear the officiant giving the long-winded, routine royal wedding speech. No offense to her, as she’d come highly recommended by Manuela, but... It was dull as a brick in the rehearsal, and the real deal’s no more thrilling.

Instead, she shuts her ears to it all and shares a moment of silent, mutual delight with her fiancee. Byleth smiles down at her and subtly mouths, _‘Beautiful,’_ at which Edelgard beams and replies, _‘You too…’_

“You may now present the tokens of your bond.”

Still rather giddy and constantly glancing back at one another, the brides turn to open the coffers and lift out their contents. This portion had been audited in the rehearsal, pantomiming rather than truly presenting them to leave a little room for surprise and expedite the process, but now there’s nothing left to hide.

Byleth has seen the Empress’ crown circlet only once before, both at a distance and in passing, when helping Edelgard in the royal treasury. A thin, curved golden headpiece, neither overly ostentatious nor laden with jewels. While she’d known by that point she’d likely one day end up wearing it, it was still only _likely,_ and _likely_ hadn’t excited her, not like it does today, as her fiancee lifts it out of the box and faces her again.

Edelgard, by comparison, hadn’t a clue what was coming. The air goes forgotten in her lungs as Byleth withdraws the contents of _her_ box and brings it up into view.

The trader Anna hadn’t cut a single corner in her craft: The thing is gorgeous, and – in Byleth’s, and now Edelgard’s opinion – well worth the expense. A wide, full-grain leather band in a rich rosewood hue, with a layer of darker padding on the interior, masterfully stitched. The buckle itself is subtle, but ornamented with bright gold on its metallic portions, as well as on the small, but sturdy O-ring. Embroidered just above the attachment point, a stylized emblem of the twin-headed eagle.

_Her **collar.** Hers._

The whispers of the crowd grow more intense; those furthest back would have no hope of making out the items with any clarity even should they squint, and rely on the steady flow of hushed gossip from the frontmost rows: _A collar. The General’s holding the collar. What does that mean?_

It means this: With a nod from the officiant, Edelgard and Byleth each step forward, bend down upon one knee, and with every ounce of focus invested in steadying their hands, reach up to simultaneously and symbolically adorn one another – neither before the other, both in mutual respect, a compelling show for the masses. Edelgard’s arms lift up above to set the crown atop her lover’s head, with Byleth’s navigating beneath and through, slipping the band carefully around Edelgard’s throat – _two fingers, she remembers, for safety!_ – and fastening it in place with a click. Right where it belongs, and always has. Edelgard may as well be _glowing._

Even for an act spanning not even a half-minute, the sheer importance of the tokens was so immense as to leave both brides breathing more heavily as their hands retreat. _Alternatively, they’re ridiculously enamored and can’t believe they’ve done it. The ceremony is not yet finished, but this alone, this is an enormous leap._

Many of the guests seem to agree; the priestess running the show intently clears her throat and speaks loudly to stifle the ongoing exclamations of disbelief.

“Please, rise as one,” she drones. “Your vows, your oaths, may you now make them known.”

At least there’s no reason they can’t hold hands at this point in the presentation, a fact Byleth uses to her advantage by gently clasping Edelgard’s between her own, thumb fidgeting with the ring she’d given El a year and a half ago.

“Edelgard. I don’t know if I can possibly express how I’m feeling. _Feeling_ at all was so hard for me, back when we’d first met, back when my heart was sealed... I didn’t even know I was a dominant at all, until you awakened that part of me locked deep inside. Every time I’ve made the continued choice to stand by your side – In Remire, in the Holy Tomb, in the Goddess Tower, at this altar – I’ve always come away stronger, I’ve felt more alive, I’ve always learned something. And I can only hope that… I can continue sharing that with you, as your dominant.”

 _Of course you will,_ Edelgard knows, _I’ve never doubted._

“I know that... there are many that think this is a ruse to undermine you, or a coup d'état. I can promise you that above all else… my utmost, standing order I can give, is to let no command of mine compromise your own wellbeing, nor the good of Fódlan. To never allow you to circumvent your own needs, nor the responsibilities to the people I know you hold dear. And just as I will love you, and teach you, and hold you close as my submissive, so too do I swear I will ever respect you as an Emperor, and a wife, and an equal.”

Byleth finally sucks in a deep breath, having talked herself hoarse, and finally swallows that lump in her throat. She barely bungled any of her self-made script, only implemented a _hint_ of tactical improvisation, and by the unsubtle wonder in El’s eyes, she _guesses_ she did alright.

“My Teacher… my light, my Empress…” Edelgard begins, hoping the sounds of her sniffles don’t carry as far as her speaking voice. “Those years you were absent from my life were the hardest I’ve endured. Even when you knew not your nature, I always felt it. Relied on it, even, to a measure I was fearful to admit. It was that fear that kept me from confessing to you before the tragedy, and a greater regret I have never experienced. I believed I had lost you then, and never shall I make the same mistake letting the chance to share my life with you pass me by.”

Edelgard takes a bracing breath through her nose, and returns to the mental bookmark in her lines. “You are the _only_ one in this world for whom I would submit, the only woman for whom I will ever kneel. And though I was made to feel ashamed and fearful of that fact, I shall let it shadow me no longer, for holds no bearing on my ability to serve our nation and our world. I am so wholeheartedly proud, Byleth – not only to have you as my wife and partner in all things, but to be your submissive.”

The officiant turns a page of the book on the altar’s lectern, then sweeps her hands out wide.

“Your vows to one another are exchanged and sworn, as are yours to the people of this Empire. May you hold them true, through the brightest and darkest days, until your very last.”

It’s notable, for scholarly purposes, that along with the other modifications to the script, so too was excised the usual obligation to inquire after any objections to the union, to speak-now-or-forever-hold-your-peace and so forth. This omission was considered a valid precaution during their drafting stage; no one wanted to get any blood on their fine wedding apparel. And there _would have been_ blood.

“By the power vested in me by the great Adrestian Empire, and the burgeoning United Fódlan, I hereby confirm you: Edelgard and Byleth von Hresvelg-Eisner, Emperor and Empress-Consort, Collared Submissive and Dominant, lawfully wedded wives, witnessed in the eyes of all. You may kiss the bride.”

_And they do._

Byleth disposes with all the calm and composure, the pomp and circumstance, and pulls El into a squeezing embrace, lips clashed together with more adoration than accuracy. The people in the pews can’t rightfully see she was a little off-course, anyway! Edelgard flings her arms around her wife’s shoulders and kisses back, fiercely and firmly, and may the awkwardness be damned.

 _Her wife. Her wife and dominant._ Edelgard’s face is wet with joyful tears as they pull apart, and Byleth breaths out in a laugh, wiping them away not with her hands, but by playfully nuzzling them away with her cheeks. They’ve had enough fussy formality for one day.

The officiant is… still rattling on above their heads, they find, but it’s all winding down, just a few final words on togetherness and strength to lead them out. More for the crowd’s benefit than their own. The chamber orchestra begins to strike up a triumphant tune, and on that note, Byleth crouches, adjusts her grip, and hauls Edelgard up off her feet in a perfectly-practiced bridal carry. To a roar of support from the majority of the audience, the Empress-Consort bears their Emperor quickly down the aisle, and straight out the doors.

* * *

Even a ‘perfect’ day is not without its imperfections.

Sadly, it would appear that simply skipping over the question of objection was not enough to brook any and all obnoxious complaints against their ceremony.

As Byleth practically skips down the red carpet leading out of the chapel and towards the reception in the plaza outside, submissive lovingly cradled in her arms, a figure steps sharply from the clapping crowd on the sidelines and impedes their progress. An irritable old pimple of a man in an ill-fit purplish frock.

 _“Yoooour Majesty,”_ he sneers, and it takes several seconds of Edelgard sifting back through the otherwise happy occasion to find her Emperor Brain again to recognize him. One Chamberlain Basset, if memory serves – dominant, bearer of a Minor Crest, and manager of a lesser, but long-historied house of nobility, connected closely to that despicable Metodey’s lineage by some marriage-of-convenience. While a man of laughable importance by his lonesome, he’s long been given to aristocratic hedonism and thus, well-connected with the noble antagonists to Edelgard’s progressive manifesto. Today's unveiling that she is breaking that unbroken cycle of the _Dominant Hresvelg Lineage_ must have finally dredged his ire to the surface.

Edelgard looks to Byleth seriously, and the latter lets her down onto her feet.

“I’ve held my tongue long enough, but SOMEONE must speak to reason! I may not know what scheme you and your inner circle are conspiring towards with this… this _charade,_ but it’s clear your cherry-picked ministers are failing in their duties to keep you to your senses! Either you’ve doomed us to destitution however long you maintain this ploy, this… this nonsense about not being a dominant, or if – _Goddess forbid_ – this tripe is accurate, you’ve well and truly borne our nation’s neck to the blade! That crown of our nation is not for the unfit, and _no submissive_ has ever met that mark!”

When the rant reaches a pausing point, Edelgard scoffs sharply, but before she can lay into the man herself, Byleth lightly grasps her shoulder with a meaningful frown on her face. _It’s time she had the chance to utilize a privilege she’s finally earned after all these years holding back._

Byleth steps around her wife and positions herself in front of The Good And Honorable Chamberlain Basset, hand casually, if pointedly resting atop the hilt of her ceremonial blade, eyes of burning blue staring down at him with all the reprehension due a man disrupting their day of celebration and impugning Edelgard’s honor.

It’s rare indeed that Byleth has ever drawn upon her innate dominance for intimidation, and were she not genuinely furious at the accusations against her beloved, she could better enjoy the novelty. Despite only a half-inch or so in height advantage, she seems to loom sky-high above him as she speaks, slow and imperious.

"If you have a problem with the collar I placed around her neck, you'll take it up with me," she seethes in a voice colder than a Faerghan blizzard, her raw authority reminding all in attendance she is still every inch the Goddess Vessel and more. Edelgard has no doubt: With that look in her eye, Byleth could make mountains bow.

Basset makes a toothy grimace, wrinkles creasing his forehead as his entire face contorts with indignity… and base fear. Waves of Byleth’s unbridled _presence_ thrash against him, and were he any less stodgy and stern of a dominant himself he might already have turned tail.

Familiar faces emerge from throughout the crowds, arranging themselves at the fore, should this random interloper turn out to be the first volley in some more dangerous sabotage, some last-ditch _Slithers_ plan. The attending Black Eagles join in staring the man down, irritation at his gall plain on every face.

Byleth speaks again, and against his will, Basset’s eyes are snapped back to hers. She speaks slowly, every word a punch of metal against metal: "Is there still a problem, sir?"

The Chamberlain staves off his inevitable surrender only a few seconds more before he’s blubbering out a bitter, reluctant concession, _‘wishing them well’_ through clenched teeth and all but sprinting away at what speed his stubby legs can muster, flapping arms at partygoers and elbowing his way to safety.

An arm hooks around Edelgard’s shoulders, and her wife casually ducks close to whisper in her ear: “That felt about as good as I’d always hoped it would.”

_Edelgard is relieved, yes. But also, shamelessly enough: quite aroused._

* * *

The reception is a whirlwind.

Even confined to the smaller, more private gathering in a spacious garden adjacent the cathedral, there are still so many hands to shake, congratulations to accept, confessions of _‘I wouldn’t have ever guessed’_ to nod and smile through.

Within the cathedral, an unspoken dress code of ‘actually being dressed’ was mandated, but once the event shifted to a more casual function, those restrictions came off, and clothing restrictions for a modest number of submissives came right back into effect. It’s a tad hard for Edelgard not to stare at a few of the nearly-naked or outright nude subs loitering on the stone terrace, strolling amid the topiaries, casual as can be.

While she knows Byleth is fully aware of her complex regarding her countless scars, and would thus never impose such a strict rule on her in reality, it’s… an interesting thought experiment. Just her, comfortable in nothing but her collar and crown, and no one batting an eye now that they know just what she is.

But, a fantasy is only a fantasy. Even discounting her own issues, there would only be more agitators aiming to use it as an excuse to harass her, just like the loathsome Basset. That pompous interruption of his had set her nerves to pounding, but a glass of honey wine and a fresh fruit tart later, she’s relaxed herself again. No Agarthan assassins, no grand conspiracy. Just the inescapable nuisances they always knew would pester them, but nothing she and Byleth can’t handle together.

Not that they’re necessarily together right _now._ Their friends, unintentionally, had pulled them apart some time ago, conversational threads diverging at a fork in the road and both Adrestian monarchs chasing whichever best suited their social skillset. A few tangents later, and they’re on entirely opposite ends of the decorated clearing in the garden center.

She can be glad Byleth is enjoying herself, though – she’s well aware her wife is not the most interested in the nitty-gritty of politics, the puffed up egos, palm-greasing, the pomp and circumstance, but it’s pleasant seeing her holding her own speaking to a small gaggle of knights and nobles. And never once does she forget her bride; Byleth is always looking her way, giving her knowing nods and buttery-warm smiles.

It’s nice. Quaint. But childish as it is, Edelgard is growing bored. And un-childish as it is, she’s growing _needy._ There’s a bold _want_ in her eyes that she can only surmise Byleth can’t read from so far away. Patience, though! Patience has gotten her this far, and patience will last her until an exit from the festivities makes itself apparent. _Until then, calm yourself! None of these lecherous, drooling daydreams!_

Searching swiftly for a distraction, Edelgard spins in place, drumming her fingers on the stem of her wineglass. The revelers have all split off into their own clusters for the time being, who can she recognize? Ah. Claude. _Or does he prefer Khalid now, even outside of his kingdom?_

The Almyran king is carrying on through the raucous laughter of a small crowd of other foreign dignitaries visiting for the event, getting in some good ribbing of time-honored Fódlan culinary traditions.

“No, it’s – I’m telling you, my tongue could barely feel the heat. I mean, these guys import our spices by the cartload, but would it kill them to ever _use_ some of it? What, d’they think a spice rack’s just meant to sit around and look pretty? We’ve got subs for that!”

Edelgard chuckles subtly to herself. She can’t disagree, even if she’s a bit put out for the honor of her own cooks. Far too many of the illustrious old-money families to host her have never been daredevil enough to experiment past a pinch of salt. In the most _extreme_ of cases, an afterthought of oregano. What a _thrill._

 _But… wait._ If Claude’s on his own over there, and the Almyran royal submissives are just off to her right at the desserts table, then where’s –

“Well heeeeeeeeey there, Your Majesty!”

_Oh, **not now,** Hilda._

A very bored Hilda Goneril von Riegan, having abandoned her husband to his schmoozing, has finally spotted the opening in Edelgard’s proverbial social bulwark and swung right through.

The pair have held an ongoing silent conversation of _looks_ since after the Royal Couple’s first dance. Dispassionate, flat stares clashing ruthlessly against smug, waggling eyebrows from over the garden’s banquet tables.

“Been a while, huh! Y’know, since all the pointless war ‘n death and the whole bluh-bluh-Archbishop’s-a-Dragon-I-was-right-all-along thing. _That_ was a doozy. Soooo... how’s the _subby life_ been treating you? Got any fun stories yet?”

It would be treating her a lot more kindly and seeing her making those 'fun stories' all the sooner if she weren’t being ribbed about it right now. Edelgard prepares herself to churn out some placid, diplomatic retort... But lo, by the grace of a deity in whom Edelgard doesn’t believe, a miracle!

“I hope it will treat her as well as she deserves, and more,” interrupts Byleth, having seen her submissive’s distress from afar and leapt in for the assist, just as she’d promised. The Empress-consort herself has no quarrel with Hilda at all, but knows she and Edelgard had a messy, short-lived… _relationship debacle_ at the Academy so long ago, years before they'd met. She simply smiles that pleasant, oblivious puppy-dog smile and moderates the interaction between the exes.

Hilda’s face gets sour for a couple of seconds, until she lets that influential, some-say-manipulative charisma flood her face with a big, cheshire grin of her own.

“Sure, sure, so then you’d _probably_ better go DO something about that, huh, Professor? Wouldn’t wanna keep the lady waiting, right~?”

Edelgard pales by a shade, wide-eyed confusion thrown Hilda’s way as the Almyran queen turns to go loiter elsewhere and spoil her own sub, waggling her fingers in a sarcastically playful wave goodbye.

This means nothing to Byleth, who thinks it’s a wonderful idea! She’s been raring to get up and out of all this confusing social-hierarchal mishmash for a while now, and can’t wait to show Edelgard the surprise she’s cooked up. Among other things. She is not a creature unknown to desire.

They’ve made their speeches, spun in their dance, had some toasts, that’s enough, right? The party can carry itself along without their involvement, and really, who can chastise the Royal Couple if they feel like bowing out of their own celebration?

“Ready to go?” Byleth asks her wife, and Edelgard nods quick enough to give her neck a cramp, clasping the outstretched hand and allowing her dominant to lead her far, FAR away from anyone else wishing to smarmily comment on her nature tonight. _And hopefully towards a much sweeter, much more private celebration in the castle._

Hilda leans back against a buffet table, eyeing them up in silence until the Royal Couple are well out of earshot. Only then does she loudly ask the surrounding area, “Anybody else think it’s, like, super weird how we’re all acting chill, like we don’t know what’s going on here, when we _totally know_ she’s heading straight up there to pound some Imperial snatch?”

A trio of diplomats within earshot choke on their roast pheasant, yet keep their heads down and their shocked exclamations shuttered. Hilda knows damned well what she can get away with now that she’s the queen of a foreign land with whom peace talks are ongoing, and even if she can’t heckle Edelgard herself, she still intends to squeeze that immunity for every drop of fun she can have on this trip.

Cuddled close at her side, a bright-faced Marianne can’t help but giggle, “H-Hilda…!” Felix drops the crust of bread he’s picking at and makes a muffled snorting noise behind his hand, desperately trying to hide any hint of a smile.

On the other end of the table, going halfsies on a plate of sweet sambocade, Petra furrows her brow and leans in close to Bernadetta. Normally, she’d ask Dorothea’s aid in deciphering euphemisms, but her fellow Brigidi queen is still serenading the event.

“Bernie,” Petra whispers, “I do not understand this phrase… what exactly is it that the Professor is to be ‘snatching’ from her?”

A blushing Bernadetta sputters around a mouthful of elderflower cordial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope that was okay. hope the next one's okay too.  
> all that's left in this main story outline's the girls Doing The Do next chapter, and a short lil' epilogue to follow it up.  
> figure that once it's tied up neatly, any other ideas for this AU-of-an-AU going forward -- be it fluff, worldbuilding, or having them explore more of their dynamic sexually-speaking -- I can just tack on in a lil' series as self-contained oneshots, just short stuff, unless some big dumb idea for a larger plot hits.
> 
> I dunno. I guess this means the ride's almost over, but... hope it's been okayish enough, even if it doesn't stack up to the other spinoffs in this AU. Juuust bumblin' along. Bleep bloop.  
> I'm... gonna go procrastinate, eat some crackers, and then write some modestly-zesty Edeleth smut.


	9. Going Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've bidden their time until tonight. They've made their preparations, they've couched their expectations. There's nothing left to do but *Do.*
> 
> Tonight, Byleth and Edelgard begin to slowly push past the old limitations of their intimacy, and their dynamic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S'like, I know I'm not, like... the spiciest writer. As far as... spicy imagery and all, and word choice, and... stuff. I dunno. And they're still pretty early along in getting over their sexual dysfunction so there's that and-- bluh, I dunno, m'just... posting it so these hopelessly gay wives can get some long-awaited beginner-level kinky canoodling done.

“Byleth?”

“Yes, El?”

“This... is the door to the storage room.”

“I suppose.”

“Are we going to be consummating my collaring... in the storage room?”

“Something like that.”

Edelgard had a fairly safe assumption about what was to transpire in the coming hours, especially once Byleth had ferried her into the royal wing of the castle, down to the private hallway even guards dare not tread. All had played out as she’d predicted, right up until Byleth carried her NOT to the familiar comforts of their bedchambers to sweetly ravage her, but to the dingy old door nearby leading to that musty, nigh-abandoned storeroom.

While she’s been hoping to act every bit the model submissive as a way to ease into their night, and immediately questioning the intentions of her trusted dominant could be construed as a tad tone-deaf, pretty much _anyone_ polled would agree that she’s well within her rights to ask:

“...And why is that, exactly?”

Byleth grins wide. “You’ll see!” she chirps, then shoulders the door open with a heavy creak.

_Oh. That’s why._

Edelgard hasn’t seen hide nor hair of this room in nigh on six months, maybe even seven, and the last she remembers is simply ducking in no more than a minute to pull an old accounting record for a bulk purchase of crops from a neighboring territory. It was a dusty, dark, dreary and disheveled place then, and she’d’ve fully expected it to remain as such.

Instead, Byleth carries her through into a brightly-lit, arguably _cozy_ chamber, where covered candles dance in their nooks along the walls, quality lounge furniture in lively red hues replaces the faded, broken-down debris, and incense fills the room with the cloying scent of saffron.

_Right. This WAS the boudoir, wasn’t it?_

She’s never seen it like this, nor does she imagine it ever had this vibrant luster during her father’s era. Even if it was not Byleth’s hands which crafted the equipment, Edelgard can feel her direction involved. And it was all for the two of them, a private space to ensconce themselves, a sanctuary to share.

“Thoughts?” Byleth asks at length, lowering Edelgard to the floor and letting her wife regain her bearings. The Emperor doesn’t wander far, but meanders towards the center of the chamber, twirling and scouting every item, every bit of décor. Both furniture and ‘furniture,’ the sort they’ll surely test in the coming weeks.

“It’s… Perhaps ‘wonderful’ is an understatement, but I should say if your end goal was my surprise, then you surely have it… This is… You had this arranged just for us? For me?”

Byleth nods proudly, shutting the heavy door behind them. There’s a twinge in the back of Edelgard’s brain, one that subsides as soon as she focuses her thoughts on the fact the locks are all on the _inside._

_She’s here. She’s not there. This place is different. This place is **theirs.**_

“Anna says it’s completely soundproofed, she’s redone the walls, fortified the door…” Byleth glances back at it, laughing under her breath. “Aside from its _intended_ purpose, it may well serve us a suitable saferoom, if ever the castle came under siege.”

Edelgard can see the humor in it herself, waiting out an assault in an impenetrable bunker filled to the brim with bondage paraphernalia… but then, that brings her right back to her original thought. That very ‘intended purpose.’

She leans her hip against the back of the luxurious velvety loveseat, beginning to feel a tad… overdressed at present. They both _know_ what they’re going to do, they both _want_ to do it, but someone has to instigate. Say the first word. Being submissive doesn’t preclude her ability to do _that!_

“Byleth… I’m ready.” _As ready as she thinks she’ll ever be._

Removing her ceremonial sword and resting it against the fireplace mantle, Byleth looks at her askance. “And _what_ are you ready for?”

Without a second thought, Edelgard rushes to blurt out, “Everything.”

Byleth frowns. She _gets it,_ understands her wife is aiming for sheer sexual appeal more than sensibility, but it’s still off-the-mark. They can correct the mindset as they go.

“That’s not quite how it works… but, I know what you mean to say.” She paces close again, and with a simple, manageable order, their night begins to gain momentum.

“You can start by helping me undress.”

She _can?_ She _will._ As always, Byleth dodges Edelgard’s initial expectations in being the first to strip, but not in such a way as to hinder her obedience.

Edelgard bows her head a moment, then reaches for the cavalcade of glittery buttons littering Byleth’s front. Really, if she didn’t know any better, she’d think they’d added this many on _purpose,_ simply to force her to simmer in her growing _want_ as she undoes them all.

_...Actually, it’s Byleth. A legendary tactician WOULD do exactly that._

However, all thoughts of a button-based conspiracy are scattered the second Edelgard pops open the doublet and makes to slide it off Byleth’s shoulders. Rather than the simple, no-nonsense undergarments her wife is wont to wear on most days, or even the quick-and-simple breast bindings she sometimes employs, Edelgard comes face to face with sleek, shiny black.

Byleth could drink in the Emperor’s flustered, wide-eyed expression for ages.

What said Emperor finds is that the Empress-consort has prepared another surprise – that beneath her odd hodge-podge of wedding-slash-General’s apparel lies a tight, black leather bustier, overlaid decorative straps criss-crossing between the valley of her exposed breasts to accentuate them. A few stunned blinks later, Edelgard spies that the outfit trails further down below the trousers, hinting at even more to be found.

She can’t stand here gawking forever, though, she has her orders! Foolish as it is, she begins to feel as if she’s a child unwrapping a present on Saint Cichol’s Day, something akin to youthful glee overtaking her as she speeds up her stripping, crouching down and bunching up her own dress just to help Byleth step up and out of her boots, shed her pants. _Off, off, off!_

When all is said and done, clothes neatly folded and stacked on the floor, her wife is, objectively, the utter image of an archetypal dominant. And it is _enthralling._

What lay beneath all the military pomp and wedding frippery is a complete set of firm leather lingerie, polished so fine Edelgard would daresay she could see her reflection.

The thin window between the halves shows off Byleth’s rippling abdominals, and garters link the main body of the garment to matching stockings. Edelgard wonders, had she paid more careful attention during the ceremony, if she could’ve caught a glimpse of the black sheen in the gap between Byleth’s plain white dress gloves and her sleeve, a tease of the longer, more suggestive opera gloves that secretly lay beneath.

It must have been an utter nuisance to get on, let alone beneath the entire rest of her ensemble, and to wear it throughout the entire day…? Let it never be said Byleth von Hresvelg-Eisner isn’t willing to sacrifice in the name of love, or at least the ability to relish Edelgard’s shy delight.

_Plus, she’d bought this set off Anna months ago, and it’s ABOUT TIME she got to put it to use! Satisfaction WAS guaranteed!_

The Emperor is rather transparent in her staring now, committing this sight to the treasure trove of this day’s many fond memories. Byleth isn’t as easily distracted. She circles behind Edelgard, hands skimming over the Emperor’s shoulders, and softly husks into her ear: “Your turn, love.”

The spooled braids of Edelgard’s crown are uncoiled and set free, the crown – and Byleth’s – both set side-by-side on the mantle. Her hair is combed out, set free to drape over the bare skin soon revealed as her dress is doffed. No less cumbersome in its many layers, the pair work in tandem to shimmy her out of the thing. Given its ridiculous silhouette, both women give up after a token effort of attempting to properly fold it, and simply chuck it in a pile next to Byleth’s. A _tomorrow_ sort of problem.

 _This_ feels a little more like it; Edelgard, bare but for her stockings and bridal gauntlets, her ring and her collar, naked enough for the night to proceed. Her self-consciousness as regards her figure, and the hundred-some scars that mar it, is yet to completely disappear, yet it’s not going to stop her from feeling admired.

Byleth confidently circles over to the chaise-lounge in the room’s center, and drops onto the seat. As Edelgard makes to follow, she sees that obscured by the coffee table had been a large floor cushion, placed right in front of Byleth’s chosen spot. The message is implicit.

“Before we go any further… You remember the signal word we devised? ‘Bergamot’ will work for tonight, unless you’d rather something else. And our nonverbal sign?”

Edelgard nods. “Yes. Bergamot, and…” She bends to rap her knuckles on the wooden table twice rapidly, pauses a beat, then twice again at speed.

There’s a nigh-imperceptible change in Byleth’s smile, from a faint, affable curve, to something speaking a self-awareness of the power she holds.

“In that case… El? _Kneel for me.”_

Gravity itself shifts from Edelgard’s perspective; a natural and inescapable pull drawing her down without a moment’s hesitation, without any second thoughts of shame. Onto her knees she goes, sinking into the pillow, arms slowly folding behind her back on instinct, staring up in search of Byleth’s approval.

**_“...Good girl.”_ **

Immediately, Byleth understands all the hubbub made about that simple throwaway phrase, ‘patronizing’ or not.

From the instant she speaks the syllables to life, those primal parts in the backs of their brains tethered to their respective natures shoot a cocktail of happy chemicals into their systems in a symbiotic chain reaction – Byleth _thriving_ in the sense of comforting command she holds over her beloved, the knowledge she can exert this sort of healthy control over her obedient submissive, and Edelgard? She’s practically melting into the floor where she kneels, her whole body visibly relaxing, eyes fluttering shut, knees quivering, and all with the sweetest sigh of **_bliss_** from her lips.

_They could both get used to this._

Alas, Byleth can’t simply repeat those two powerful words on a loop for the entire night, expecting that to sate them. It’s counterproductive, in a way; it eases their respective needs for a few short moments… only for said need to be stoked hotter and heavier from the fuel thrown on the fire, coming back with a vengeance.

Edelgard, for instance, can’t shed this insatiable desire to serve her wife, and Byleth is increasingly aware of her own arousal, the slick against her skin only made more obvious by the tightness of the leather undergarments.

She leans inward, reaching down beneath the chaise-longue to slide out a flat crate of utilities. Since she’s not exactly under any other orders as regards her posture, Edelgard takes a peek herself.

Therein lies a treasure trove of tools and sexual implements, many of which are familiar, a few inherently intimidating which she knows won’t see use for a while yet, but at the top of the pile? A cluster of cuffs, custom restraints made to match in both color and comfort to her brand new collar.

Subconsciously, her wrists rub together behind her back.

“If you feel you’re ready… We’ll be using these, tonight. I want to make this so good for you, El, for both of us… So let’s do our best, alright?” Byleth smiles after her sweet words, takes the first paired set of restraints from the top of the pile and –

_And cuffs... herself?_

Now, Edelgard may be inexperienced, but as far as her academic understanding goes, such sessions as these _do not_ typically begin with the dominant slipping cuffs on _themselves._ And heavens forfend she need to cram back into her clothing to go call upon a locksmith at this hour of evening, just to free her wife…!

Byleth remains as unfazed as ever, even laughing a little at Edelgard’s bold-faced bewilderment.

“Now, there’s something a little different about these cuffs,” Byleth tells her. “Watch my hands.” She begins to press her wrists together to twist at a very particular angle. “Hold them like this, you see? And again, and… pull apart.” The trick lock is disengaged, and the cuffs decouple, slipped right off Byleth’s wrists and back to dangling in her hand.

“At any time tonight – or ANY night – if you feel unsafe in them, I want you to use that, understand? It works on each set.”

Edelgard is so smitten by the sheer consideration her beloved dominant has placed into her safety and consent that she forgets to respond. It has to be prompted with a little quirk of a brow before she stammers, “Ah! Right. Understood.”

The pause in their progress is awkward, but not long.

“Are you ready? I want to hear you say it.”

_Breathe in, breathe out._

“I’m ready, my Empress. _Please.”_

Byleth scoots forward in her seat, bends down, and throws her arms around Edelgard’s shoulders, cuffs plonking lightly against her back as her Empress kisses her with vigor.

Pulling apart with a smack of lips, Byleth scoots even closer to the edge of her seat, drags her arms lower, begins trailing them further down Edelgard’s to find her wrists.

“I didn’t just want to hear it for me, either. I want you to hear it. I want you to always remember you’re here with me, and not… _there._ Not in the dungeons. Not with them, never again.”

The first difference Edelgard notes is the padding, only the softest leather cushioned against her skin, not one whit like the cold iron manacles that once bruised and bloodied her wrists. They fit around her like a hug, much like how Byleth herself is halfway wrapped around her while fitting the cuffs in place.

And she feels… _nice._

There’s no sign of it, the old fear of being bound that’s resurfaced in their past attempts. True, sometimes it appears on a delay, waits until the most inconvenient moment to strike, but Edelgard can’t even catch a _trace_ of it tonight. In its place is this… pleasant sense of safe surrender, finally edging closer rather than remaining too far on the horizon to reach.

When Byleth reaches for another set, and similarly binds her ankles, Edelgard pulls them close together of her own volition, and once set in place, she tugs against them not to free herself, but to feel _secure._

_It’s really happening, isn’t it? After all this time, it’s so close now._

Even with more bindings from the box she could apply, Byleth stops there for the time being. While she’s happy Edelgard is feeling soothed and safe, in her enthusiasm she herself is getting… Well, a bit _impatient,_ actually. Her libido, typically so manageable, is growing wilder tonight, thrashing at its confines and demanding satisfaction. All because of her beautiful El, so strong for her…

 _To hells with it._ This diversion isn’t in line with her original battle plan, but should she not have this seen to _now,_ it may just come to distract her while she’s trying to enact more _elaborate_ parts of her strategy!

“Tell me, El… how are you doing so far? Comfortable? Do you like the way it feels?”

Edelgard swiftly nods, and in lieu of a longer-form summary of her emotional state, settles on “Indeed… I believe I could come to love this, my Empress.”

Only one more item is plucked from the toybox – a length of thinly braided cord with a hooked fastener at one end, and a leather loop at the other. A humble leash for a mighty Emperor.

Byleth links eyes with her love, then juts her own chin upwards in a silent suggestion, one Edelgard obeys with ease. Her neck, her collar is presented, and the little metal loop closed around the O-ring at its center, the leash dangling with plenty of slack.

Until Byleth leans back against the loveseat, lead of the leash tightening in one hand, and the other trailing down her hip, squeezing a thumb underneath the hem of her lingerie’s lower half.

“Would you like to _show me_ just how much you love your gift?”

Edelgard hasn’t heard Byleth speak with such an outright salacious tone in… who knows how long. Most days they pursue intimacy, she still keeps her composure! She’s… _flames, she’s getting her dominant horny,_ to put it crudely, and that alone bolsters her bravery. In a flash, she knows just what her beloved wants, and even more that she _needs_ to give it to her.

“Yes, Empress… Please, let me show you. I want to be…” _Good._ She wants to be _a good girl._ Just like before, she never wants to lose that strangely honorable distinction. More valuable than any statue built in her honor, any passage in a history book praising her revolution, right now Edelgard is driven wholly by Byleth’s praise.

The leather panties were _technically_ intended to fit _underneath_ the garter-assembly, according to Anna’s scrawled leaflet of instructions, but that would make it entirely too difficult to do _this._ Byleth tugs downward, wiggling her hips almost playfully as she slides them down past her knees, and kicks them aside, one foot after the other.

Edelgard struggles to stave off an overwhelming sense of hunger, that drive to dive right in between her lover’s legs and partake. But she waits, hands fidgeting and clinking around in the cuffs, until Byleth’s legs lift and hook behind her back – a spider slowly pulling in its prey. Edelgard couldn’t be more thrilled to be caught in her web.

“Then get to it, my heart,” Byleth chuckles, her affable tone of voice irrevocably stained with lust, and she gives El’s leash the briefest little tug to prompt her.

 _Finally._ Edelgard shuffles forward on her knees to the edge of her kneeling cushion, falling forward against the edge of the loveseat and recklessly burying her face between Byleth’s bewitchingly muscular thighs.

This is not, by any means, the first time she’s performed acts of… _oral intimacy_ for her wife, not in the least, but there’s nonetheless an overwhelming sense of breaching a new frontier. Even the same old act of dragging the flat of her tongue in a long, leisurely swipe up Byleth’s folds feels so novel now! _Is it really so simple as being bound as she does? Is it the collar alone? The combination?_

Whatever the case, Edelgard is entranced by it, intoxicated, and she licks away at Byleth’s wet lower lips with all the lust and vigor expected of a total teacher’s pet.

_How right they all had been in calling her such things behind her back. If only they’d known._

“Goddess, that’s perfect, you’re doing perfect, El… I knew you would. I always did. After all the work we did together…” Byleth’s sentence falls apart, and she shudders, her thighs clenching around Edelgard’s ears with a fierce, but not painful pressure. “A-and we’re not alone in this, love. So many people wanted to see you happy, not just me…”

It’s a strange notion being proposed; Edelgard slows for a second, the tentative prods of her tongue between Byleth’s petals put on pause, instead returning to some languid, zig-zagging licks as she listens. If the slowdown bothers Byleth, she doesn’t reprimand her for it.

“The incense that's burning? A gift from Claude, some of the finest in Almyra as I’m told. The wine over there on the bedside stand? Petra tells me – _Oh! Up, a little? Right there…!_ – Petra says there’s only one permanent vineyard in all of Brigid, and she... w-wanted us to share some tonight. So many old Academy classmates, all the Black Eagles, all sharing their advice and their hopes…”

Byleth clenches up again, tight around the tongue inside her. She gives Edelgard a somewhat stronger pull on the leash to bring her flush against her folds, and uses her free hand to fondly stroke the Emperor’s hair. That she accidentally drags Edelgard closer in such a way that her nose begins to brush right against her swelling clit is but a happy coincidence, and one she encourages further.

“You… hah… You spent all these years afraid of people knowing. Now they do, and they encourage you. They – Nnn… They support you. They’re there for you... I’m here for you. It's okay to let go..."

 _Both of them_ want to let go, at the moment; Edelgard, coming closer to embracing her submission in these ways she’s never been able, and Byleth coming closer to… cumming, actually.

It’s quick, by her own standards, but seeing her pretty Edelgard trussed up and trying her hardest is sparking nonstop pulses of undiluted pleasure straight from her dominant instinct. And it’s not as if it’ll be the last tonight.

One more encouraging pull to tighten up the slack on the leash, fingers threaded through Edelgard’s hair, thighs wrapped tight and heels knocking against her submissive’s back, Byleth seizes up around her wife’s tongue, her sounds of pleasure escaping as strangled breaths rather than one long, lewd moan.

“That was… yes… Such a good girl for me, El…”

Byleth grips at some of Edelgard’s already-rumpled hair, and lightly tugs her back, tongue still lolling from her mouth.

“You make me so proud… And this is only the start. What do you think? Ready to go further?”

_Of course she is. Because against all odds, despite her uncertainty in the matter, Byleth is bringing El closer to that place she’s never reached, and neither wish to stop until they get there._

With some undignified wobbling, nearly looking like a drunkard on her shaky legs, Byleth stands and recomposes herself into that constant confidence of a determined dominant.

“Kneel a bit higher up for me? Like that, straight up, there.”

Byleth nocks an arm against the back of El’s knees, another around her back, and with a heave, hefts her up into her arms again. The bridal carry that took her out of the cathedral earlier in the evening couldn’t possibly match the intimacy of this one; no clothing in the way, cuddled closer, skin on skin on leather.

She marches them both across the room to the imposingly large canopied bed, and with some careful maneuvering and several stolen kisses, Edelgard is deposited in the center with a bounce on the upholstery.

“Wait right here for me. I’ll be right back.”

Edelgard nods an affirmative – Not that she’d be capable of hobbling very far in the first place – and her Teacher takes off to retrieve that trunk of toys, bringing it over by the bedside.

As she makes her preparations, Edelgard is left to examine the room further. Off to the left of the bed, against the wall, sits an ornate full-length standing mirror, close enough to reflect a detailed view.

For the first time, Edelgard sees herself like this, physically. Sees herself looking… content, healthy, looking like a real submissive. Not just factoring in the restraints, the dangling leash, no, but the ease of her posture, in the fact that seeing herself cuffed and collared doesn’t dredge up the horror of humiliation. She’s just… open. Laid bare for Byleth, and all she can offer, and eager to serve her in turn.

It’s… this is what it was supposed to feel like all along, wasn’t it? All the others, is this the sort of thing they’ve felt, all these years, in the company of their partners? This… complex, contradictory cocktail of vulnerability and safety? Neediness and strength?

“I actually thought about moving that away,” Byleth comments upon her return, rifling through their toybox. “But… no. I knew you might be nervous, but I wanted you to see. I want you to _watch,_ El. I want you to see just how beautiful you are for me when you’re like this.”

What Edelgard can see right NOW is just how she looks when she’s blushing; the way it doesn’t only stain her face with a rosy shade, but creeps down her neck, her blood so eager.

It only grows worse when her wife crawls up close from behind. “Ready for more?” she asks, jingling something with fiddly metal bits back where Edelgard can’t see. “You know what I want to hear, if you are.”

 _Shallow breath in– No, no. Deep breath in, slowly released._ “Yes. I’m ready, my Empress…”

“Wonderful. My wonderful wife.”

Next come the larger, lunkier members of the little cuff family – somewhat broader additions fastened along each of Edelgard’s thighs. The links of chain hooked between them are far longer than those before, meant to allow a wider range of movement, yet pin down any attempts at stretching them too far apart. A pair go on her biceps too, though Edelgard is curious whether they’re merely decorative.

Not that she’s complaining, when every addition feels like the finest jewelry decorating a body she would just as soon call shameful. Making beautiful that which she’d held no pride in.

After Byleth fixes up those on her arms, she does a quick switcheroo, untethering Edelgard’s wrists and bringing them in front before they’re secured again. _She’s planning something. She’s got an idea, and so help her if Edelgard doesn’t want to find out what it is, and fast._

“A little impatient, love?” Byleth muses, snapping the Emperor right out of her concentration. Oops. She must have been shimmying a bit much, but… _Ugh, Byleth simply has to KNOW by now, has to see just what she’s doing to her! Her legs are wide open, for heavens’ sake!_

But the Empress is becoming cruel in her love, it seems, slowing down just as Edelgard’s body demands she speed it up! The sleek, gloved hands of her wife take their sweet time simply feeling up and down her figure, drawing goosebumps in their path, all the while she grunts and mutters and tries to refrain from outright _begging_ to have those hands a little lower!

_Unless that’s what Byleth wants. Unless this is another lesson, by chance. To make her ask for it, from her own lips._

“P-please…” she finally sighs, catching her dominant’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “I need more… I don’t know what I need, I just **_do,_** so please...”

In another time, she’d have sooner perished than allow herself to sound so plaintive.

But Byleth beams brightly and kisses her bare shoulder, still speaking soft and steady.

“You’re doing just perfect, my heart. I want you to feel so good tonight. And I want you to _let yourself_ feel that good. Can you do that for me?”

Furious, emphatic nodding. Edelgard isn’t even sure what she’s agreeing to, in more objective and actionable terms, but blast it all, she’ll swear on it. She IS trying, she’ll KEEP trying… She knows Byleth is trying her damnedest to work around their mutual dysfunction and properly put her under, but it’s not as if she has a viable frame of reference.

While her wife is lost in introspection, Byleth moves into the next phase of her evolving plan. In addition to the many eye bolts and hooks studded all across the bed’s frame, another mount is placed on a braced beam of the canopy just above, perfect for suspension.

Though she couldn’t dare go as far as _full_ suspension play so early on; Byleth wouldn’t want to chance it when they’re both such amateurs. She has myriad plans for such things down the line, having already taken to studying Brigidi and Dagdan style ropework, but tonight she's playing it safe.

No, the bolt is still crucial, even for a simpler sort of tie.

Byleth stands up on the bed – _whilst Edelgard, in turn, is unintentionally bounced on the mattress like a playful child_ – so that she can thread a cord up and through the eye bolt above, then bring one end down, around, and… And looped into the middle segment of Edelgard’s cuffs.

“Let’s get these up and out of the way, shall we?”

With tug after tug, her hands are lifted higher, now crossed well above her head, just short of a strenuous stretch. Here, Byleth fastens it off, leaving enough slack for Edelgard to shift and wobble a bit, adjusting to the limitations.

And even still, more rustling around! More, really? _While she won’t begrudge her dominant for putting in such hard work,_ Edelgard thinks in a blur, _she would very much like to have this wanton fire inside her settled before she’s consumed entirely!_

Byleth is no mind reader, but she’s moving as swiftly as she can. She’s finagled herself into a harness of leather loops meant for her lower body, and procured a specially-shaped toy to match. She uncorks a stout vial of oil, using it to slick up the length of the shaft, as well as the shorter, curved end _allegedly_ meant for a bit of her own enjoyment.

Without further ago, she slides the smaller, bent bulb of the toy up inside herself, still quite sensitive from her first orgasm of the night, and treats Edelgard to another hiss of delight whilst she finishes readying her strap.

Around to the front she crawls; there’s no time, nor really any desire between them to have her pose in front of the mirror like a showoff. They _need_ this, and _now,_ Byleth herself still so eager, so excited to see her beloved find solace while bound, and who can blame her? Her heart hasn't felt a greedy want this strong since the day it started beating.

Not to be imposing, Byleth gives the thing a playful flick, and slides in underneath Edelgard, right between her legs, with a pair of pillows to prop herself back on. The oil-smeared shaft is positioned just against Edelgard’s entrance, and a light pull on her leash steals her attention right back.

Byleth stares up at her, proud and adoring, and gives her hip a gentle caress. Her order is absolute.

**_“Go on. Ride me, El.”_ **

Edelgard knows full-damned-well that Byleth remembers how painfully _average_ her grades in mounted class exams had been, but that’s not going to stop her from _riding her fluttering heart out!_

With haste and hunger, she makes to sink onto the toy, her cry of pleasure flooding the soundproofed chamber as the stinging twinge of stretching turns right into pure sexual fulfillment.

Pulling hard on the cuffs above her for leverage, she’s able to hoist herself back up its length and drop more heavily, again and again. But even as she tries to take Byleth at its deepest…

“Ggh… just a bit… a bit more, why can’t I...”

She should’ve known it wouldn’t be so easy; with the limitations in place – the tether holding her up, the chain at her thighs restricting their spread, the posture forced – she can only lower herself so far! She can almost, ALMOST take the thick toy to its base, its gentle curve just short of striking a sensitive spot within, but one last damnable inch is still beyond her, something only Byleth can aid with.

And Byleth just massages her hips, smiling a very rare, almost vain sort of smile, that of a dominant savoring the sight of their submissive undertaking a challenge set before them... Writhing there in her lap. She plays at complete ignorance of Edelgard’s struggle, tracing the lines of her lover’s scars and rubbing love into them as she muses aloud.

“If you need something… you’ll have to use your words, love. I’m listening.”

It’s probably… No, it’s _absolutely s_ ome convoluted lesson from her Teacher; even in her hopelessly horny state Edelgard can puzzle out the metaphor. That she’s in full command of the motion, still in complete control of how fast she’s _taken,_ but that last sweet inch, the last she needs to feel completely _full,_ is something she can only have at Byleth’s behest. That all she need do in this moment is trust, and submit.

Helplessly grinding in place, Edelgard bites back another wavering groan and discards all pretense of propriety. More ground is given up, more barricades fall. “Byleth would you just – F-f-fuck me! Just... please!”

That her wife has reduced _Her Imperial Majesty_ to this: desperate, sweat-sheened, hips bucking, filthy-mouthed… That’s uncommon in and of itself, but that she doesn’t even _care_ this time? That all she can think of is earning her dominant’s permission and praise at a time like this? A first.

_“There you go. That’s my El.”_

Her submission’s reward is immediate. Byleth juts her hips upward just as the Emperor falls, the toy’s soft tip striking something _deep_ within and earning a primal wail.

_When’s the last time she made a sound so loud without a care to who hears? When’s the last time it was in delight, and not anguish?_

As the Empress sets to a steady tempo of shallow thrusts in tandem with Edelgard’s movements astride her, it becomes trivial to be honest about her body’s delight. Not only refusing to give consideration to ill judgment, but forgetting there’s even judgment to be considered at all, any outside of Byleth’s.

The walls are falling away, it seems, the floor as well; she’s… sinking, but not dropping harshly. Parts of the world around are lost in a fog, perception shorn down to just the bed around them, the touch, the pulses of pleasure each time they collide… All that matters, all that she needs to do… Follow where Byleth leads her, hand light on her leash, and this feeling, she needs more, _so much more. How did she live without it?_

Yet that extends not only to the satisfaction of her soul, but her sex – even as she’s no longer denied the full length of Byleth’s strap, the constraints of the position mean those solid strikes of succor are not enough, not when her entranced state of mind is only making it harder to have their motions align _just right._

Edelgard pushes out a defeated little whine, hips straining against the chain. “Still not enough… not like th- like this… Empress, I need…”

Byleth needs little more than a second to parse her wife’s meaning. This thrill, seeing them go so far, has flared that innate instinct of hers, and she won’t allow them to stumble on this journey.

“That part is… hah… that part’s my fault, my heart, forgive me… but worry not, I’ll see us both satisfied.”

To Edelgard’s _temporary_ dismay, Byleth slides out from beneath her, and with all the haste of a beast untamed, rummages in the box of depraved trinkets ‘til she finds her desired tool.

Were the brides but a fraction more patient, perhaps Byleth could have manually undone the beginner’s knots on the rope tethering Edelgard’s hands above… But in the heat-soaked haste, she takes the set of emergency shears and _(in a rash decision for which she’ll scold herself later)_ slashes the rope midway.

Detached from the anchor point, Edelgard doesn’t even get a chance to fall; Byleth has the Emperor in her arms immediately, and the panting mess of a monarch is escorted swiftly to the pillows still at the head of the bed.

Flat on her back, the leash haphazardly tossed aside, Byleth descends on her. The few minutes it’s been since they’ve last kissed is a travesty the Empress seeks to rectify, all the while she straddles Edelgard’s thighs, working the tip of the toy back into position. When she picks back up where they’d last left off with a fierce thrust, she swallows up Edelgard’s moan with her own.

It’s rough, but not at all unkind. It’s an impassioned joining, more animated than either can recall they’ve ever been in bed, Byleth slamming the shaft inside as Edelgard’s cuffed hands loop behind her shoulders, hugging her close, _closer,_ nails unintentionally leaving pink hatchmarks in her beloved’s back.

The angle might not be perfect, there could have been better positions if they took the time to fuss with the restraints, but could either give a solitary damn at this moment?

For Byleth, more stimulating even than the lackluster nub on her end of the toy – _going to have to question Anna about that sales pitch_ – is the absolute delight in being able to hit headspace and let her dominant aspect run wild, even as she maintains constant control of the action. To be able to uncork the casks and to pour out all the enthusiasm she’d had to love her El in this way for over a year.

And Edelgard is keen to drink deep of every drop.

In the Agarthan’s dungeon, Edelgard’s mind was oft driven to a disconnected place, one separate from reality. A dreary, dissociative state, a void in which there was nothing, nothing made it through but the hurt.

This, by all rights, is the opposite. Nothing else exists but the pleasure and serenity of her submission. All the world around her falls away, and Byleth’s voice and touch are her tether.

And for whatever reason she’s not liable to understand as an amateur, Byleth can _sense_ it. Something in El’s expression, the dilation of her pupils, the sound of her sharp gasps and sighs. Something’s changed, something new, she’s… Oh.

_Goddess, after all this time... She’s pretty sure she’s actually put El all the way under._

Then a celebration is in order, is it not? A reward? Having had her fill of nipping at her wife’s ear, suckling on her neck just short of her collar, Byleth sinks a hand into the mess of ivory strewn behind her head. Her spare shoots straight down to just above El’s folds, starting to deviously, deliciously thumb at her enlarged clit.

Before Edelgard knows it, she’s smothered firmly into her Empress’ chest, soft and plush, but heaving with effort. Even with all the world deafened, she can make out a steady pulse rumbling out against her skin: a _thumpthumpthumpthumpthump._

“Do you hear that, El? Hear how fast my heart is beating? And it’s all because of you it can sound like this... it’s all _for_ you. You’re making it like this, being so good for me, so strong tonight… You made it, and I’m so proud of you.”

_So close so close so close so close…!_

Byleth turns slight, fleeting flicks of a thumb into heavier circular spins, strap-thrusts swift, her embrace tight. Edelgard mewls.

“Sssh, it’s time, you don’t have to wait any longer – Cum for me, El… there you go.”

In that moment, Edelgard is set alight, her skin on fire and electrified and stricken with heavens-know-how-many other sorts of magic she’s had cast upon her in the past. It’s more than bone-deep, it’s soul-deep, this feeling of release when she climaxes, this satiation long-overdue, cuff-links clinking from the frenetic jerking of her limbs.

Byleth just hugs her _tighter._ She wishes to herself she still had full command of the Divine Pulse, that she could go back and back and review this singular moment for a thousand years to come.

Just as her dominant has been given leave to open up all she’s held back, Edelgard feels much the same from her end. Like year’s worth of pent-up need, stores of oil finally sparked into a blaze. Every anguished day purging her body of the suppressant elixir, every misstep in learning to embrace her submissive instinct, all absolutely, unequivocally worth it. All for this bliss.

Back in the _physical_ world, whilst Edelgard’s mind is on its introspective, floaty journey, Byleth continues to rut firmly into her wife, going more gently on her sensitive bud, helping push her through every peak and valley until she’s finally had her fill.

Shamelessly, after a time, Byleth greedily switches from rubbing at El’s to roughly tending her own, this entire ordeal having brought her so close to a second peak, herself. It’s a shallow pleasure when she hits it, not the same as having her sub’s tongue inside her, nor perfectly-timed together as in all those lurid novellas she’d been lent, but it is explicitly wonderful to ride these waves nonetheless.

The both of them drained by the exhilaration, Byleth simply, unceremoniously flops down atop her beloved with the strap still partly buried inside, chests pressing against each other as they steady their heavy breathing.

The sheets beneath them both are flooded with their essence, undoubtedly a pain for the laundry staff, but a necessary sacrifice.

Propped on one elbow, Byleth permits herself a minute just… watching her wife. Her submissive. Watching her bask in subspace.

A time or two, the Empress had described to Edelgard the nebulous otherworldly place she’d rested those five long years of their separation, after the Battle of Garreg Mach. She claimed it was like floating in a dark sea, in a vast expanse of void. A place apart from the world.

The more Edelgard floats suspended in her own tranquil place, bare and pure, she wonders how alike they are. She feels lighter; or perhaps she’s realizing just how heavy her mantle always been. And yet, for this moment, she needn’t carry it. Finally able to let it go.

Absentmindedly, Byleth muses on what Sothis would say to all of this, were she still able to hear her friend’s voice as once she did.

 ** _‘It’s about time,’_** no doubt.

* * *

Jests that they could carry on the whole night long are only jests; a few hours of intense sexual activity and exploration of their dynamic, even on-and-off, are enough to run their stamina low. The cuffs have come off, the lingerie shed and bundled away. It’s time for winding down.

Byleth is feeling rather buzzed as she performs some rudimentary cleanup, her dominant aspect still pumping her chock-full of whatever happy neurochemicals it has at its command, thanks to this day’s stimulation. Not enough to leap back into the fray and lovingly ravage her wife – they’re both far too spent – but sufficient to make her feel _right._ Feel valid as a dominant, more than she likely ever has.

As she returns to the boudoir from the washroom, she leans against the doorframe and admires her precious submissive. The powerful, unyielding, some-daresay-merciless Emperor of Adrestia… blissed out as she lays naked, disheveled, and splayed in the large bed, blindfolded and bundling an armored bear stuffy to her chest.

She hadn’t wanted to leave her love all alone as she saw to drawing their bath, even for a minute. In her stead, she’d made sure to pack a special friend in their aftercare kit: the stuffed _Bear-leth_ Bernadetta had customized for them as part of a pair, each resembling one of the royal couple.

_And Goddess, if it isn’t adorable to see her submissive snuggling up with a soft, small version of herself in stuffy form. She could bottle this moment up and have it sate her for months._

Though, she knows the substitute won’t do for long, nor does she wish to see this astounding night marred by subdrop. _Might also be getting a tad jealous of Bear-leth._ She steps over to the bed and rubs Edelgard’s back, until the Emperor rolls to face her, blindly groping for where she assumes her wife could be.

Chuckling, Byleth slides the blindfold up and off her face, showing her a soft smile as soon as her bleary eyes can see it.

“Bath’s ready, my heart. Can you walk?”

Edelgard is nearly nonverbal in her spacey state, but she gives a clear nod-nod of assent, and slides off the sex-stained silken sheets onto the floor. Byleth would fret that her bare feet could get cold on the cool stone tile outside, but it’s just a short shot to get there, in a private hallway. No need to be _overbearingly_ protective, she’ll manage.

She HAS, after all, seen Edelgard take an arrow to the shoulder amid the furor of the battlefield, rip it right back out, and chase down the offending archer with an axe held high. El can handle some _chilly toesies._

The private bath spills a cloud of fragrant steam out into the hall as the door is opened, and Byleth rushes them in to keep the rest sealed inside.

Edelgard is plopped onto the edge of the wooden washtub, head lolling back to breathe in the fragrance of scented bath oils as Byleth lifts and examines her limbs. No doubt examining for spots where she’ll be massaging lotion deep into the reddened markings where they’d been restrained, even a few particularly vivid love-bites, once their soak is done.

El’s not wont to give any commentary, short of some contented hums, or slight hisses of discomfort as Byleth tests and kneads her. It’s only once Byleth has finished setting out the vials and makes to unfasten her collar that she intervenes.

“W-wait…” Edelgard mumbles all of a sudden, eyes widening and blinking into focus.

_Well, drat. Now Byleth feels a little guilty, at least for interrupting._

“Just for the bath, El. Don’t want it to get wet. We want it to last a good long time.”

She HAS been under a bit too deep for complex reasoning, but now Edelgard can put the pieces together and, regretfully, defer to Byleth’s suggestion. “Ah… quite right,” she sighs, then shoots her wife a sidelong glance, even a hair of a smirk playing at her lips.

“So long as you swear you’ll return it right after... I’ve not gone this long without to be denied even a second the privilege of wearing it.”

“The very second we’re dried off,” Byleth laughs. Once she’s dealt with the collar, leaving it pride-of-place over on the cupboard, she steps into the washtub. Hooking arms around her wife, she drags Edelgard in with her, resting against her chest in the warm bathwater.

“I’ve… I never imagined, honestly. That is, I had my theories, made… educated hypotheses based on testimony, but… This sensation. All of it. It’s truly something I couldn’t have known how to fathom, until now.”

Byleth is pleased enough to hear the afterglow has yet to _fully_ fade for her sub, much as she’s absolutely earned it. And it does her own nerves good to know she’s the reason the Emperor is like this. A pride she couldn’t find anywhere else.

“I can’t quite say for sure, being on opposite ends as we are, but… I can at least say this, that I’ve never felt as certain of myself, what I am, as I have tonight…” She pauses to reach-reach-grab at a small piece of dried fruit from the tray she’d ferried over from their room, left just beside the tub.

She brings it around in front of Edelgard’s mouth, and beams happily as it’s promptly eaten right out of her hand. _Adorable._

“It’s still hard to believe you’ve ever doubted yourself, Byleth… I always sensed it about you. But I suppose I’m not one to speak about complex natures, having made a mess of my own for so long.” The Emperor sighs, gently kicking her legs in the water. “Might I ask something?”

“Don’t think I know a time I’d ever say ‘no,’ so… sure? Go ahead.”

“Where is it we go next, from here?” Edelgard wonders, swishing around to switch up her position in the washtub, sitting sidelong across Byleth’s lap. “For the longest time, _this_ has been our goal on the horizon, all that we’ve achieved today. Yet now… we’ve so many destinations, and I’ve little idea where we start.”

“First of all… We _can_ just take some time to rest without following a strategy, you know that, right?” Snickering, Byleth tousles her wife’s hair, then takes to lazily scratching her scalp.

“I’m _aware,_ my light, I just…”

“You want a plan, because you like the safe structure of a plan. I know. And some would say that I’m supposed to be the one plotting every bit of it, dominant and all. But you and I both know better.”

Byleth fumbles for the serving tray again – more difficult, maneuvering around a lapful of beautiful, glistening wet wife – and pours them a cup of warm cider to share. “So, we take our time, make our plan together, what you’ll feel safest exploring next. I’d much rather come back to our chambers and find you working on that than putting in extra hours for some council proposition…”

The cider was a good idea, Edelgard thinks, because it makes the kiss she gives Byleth all the sweeter. “Then our plan is to make a plan… I suppose I’ll accept that,” she laughs, light and bubbly in her chest.

“Mhm. Though, I’d best not find you with a stack of parchment, writing away first thing after we wake tomorrow,” Byleth says, letting her head lie against the edge of the washtub.

“I think I know just how I’d like to spend our morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah uh. hope. hope that was... okay. sufficient. like, I know it won't have been GOOD-GOOD or anything, but, y'know, s'long as none of y'all came out of it going 'What the fuck is she WRITING, who allowed her to have a KEYBOARD,' then I guess I skated through.
> 
> This isn't the end-end, not yet, there's still a short little epilogue I'm finishing up, but this is the end of the overall arc for this fic, and I hope it... y'know. Worked, kinda, since it's one of my first forays into multi-chapter stuff, and pacing is... hard.
> 
> So, yeah: short epilogue fluff here in a little bit, and then... eventually maybe more oneshotty Edeleth D/s-ey adventures someday if I ever manage to get my brain working right and get an idea I think people will wanna read. And won't just be smudging my icky hands over this AU any more than I already have. I, uh. I don't. Exactly know what people wanna read. I DON'T KNOW WHAT PEOPLE WANT FROM ME BUT I WANT TO SATISFY THEM SO THEY'LL LIKE ME AND PRAISE ME (but not just be faking it) AAAAH  
> ( ;a;)


	10. Epilogue: Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She *did* once say she'd love to spend a morning like this.
> 
> And now they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> juuuuust a short snippet of dumb soft fluff to finish it off, bleep bloop

Dawn breaks gentle over the Enbarr skyline that morning, with a pleasant golden aura beneath scattered clouds tinged blush-pink.

Whilst Byleth and Edelgard both could have used the extra rest from sleeping in, especially after the rigors of the day _(and mostly night)_ prior, neither had wanted to miss this sunrise.

Granted, it’s nothing special about this specific sunrise in particular, but rather, what it means to _greet it_ like this, now that things have shifted for the new and novel.

And so, the sun peeks out to find the pair lounging at the patio table on the balcony, draped in their warmest nightgowns. A fresh pot of Bergamot tea with a splash of lemon and crumbly marmalade biscuits have been procured, which the wives eagerly tuck into with little reservation.

Byleth takes a sip from her teacup and makes a satisfied hum, her other hand lowered to the head in her lap. One which she’s never had the pleasure of hosting there until now, save in their secrecy, behind closed doors.

Kneeling just at her side – on the plush little kneeling pillow Byleth had to plod down and swipe from the boudoir for lack of yet owning a proper spare – Edelgard samples her own, and concurs.

Fingers deftly stroking through her locks, petting her fondly… occasionally, feeding her bits and bites of sweetened bread, lingering thereafter for her to lick said fingers clean.

The same foolish little fantasy she’d scorned herself for fostering a year ago has been brought to life, and it’s all she’d ever imagined it to be, and more.

That Byleth would remember such a trivial detail – She’d only commented on that passing fancy of keeping a pillow out here just once, if she recalls – had been both a joyous surprise, and absolutely predictable for a woman of her caliber.

The Empress, _her_ Empress, is paying much more attention to her than the vista before them, finding the former a far prettier sight. Smiling down beatifically from above, she does have to fix Edelgard with a pout once their congenial conversation inevitably wanders a bit too close to business.

“I thought we weren’t going to discuss work this morning,” she mulls aloud. “Last night’s a bit of a blur past a certain point; I can’t recall if I made an outright _rule_ of it, but…”

“Nnn… My apologies, I’ll refrain.”

Byleth clicks her tongue, and slips a marmalade-ey digit in to carefully tap at the tip of Edelgard’s. “Ah, ah, I know, but it’s too late now. Come on. I’ll have you speak your mind all the same.”

Following a flustered little noise from the Emperor, said mind is spoken, albeit distractedly until it recovers from that little stunt. “I’ve just been given much to think about; our dynamic’s own personal progress, pitched against how short the strides we’ve made for the people at large in the same arena. It is one thing entirely if I’m accosted by, say, Rumpolt, or Dilwyn, or Basset–“

Here, Byleth mimes angrily spitting on the floor for humor’s sake, but to her embarrassment, does sputter a couple of stray biscuit crumbs to the tiles. Edelgard chuckles, beside herself.

“Really? ...It’s one thing if I’m made to deal with the likes of them, as I’ve the power and position to stifle their malingering dissent, even unilaterally dismantle them should I so choose to take the added risks.” She rolls her head to beam gratefully at her wife. “Or, failing that, my chivalrous dominant to do it for me.”

_Byleth can’t NOT give her an extra-soft pat on the head for THAT, despite her shift into serious-mode._

“...However, that’s still a privileged position. The arbitrary discrimination against submissives and double-standards formed around such aspects of our society are still warping the lives of the many. Even with Seiros and Thales off the playing field, there’s still _so much_ work to do. And yet, I’m also given to wonder… are we the right people, is it our place to intervene so strongly, when our own circumstances were so stilted? But then, if no one works to change the broken system…”

Byleth laughs, curling ivory strands around her forefinger. “I _seem to recall_ you’ve taken umbrage with systems like that in the past.”

“Quite an understatement, my light.” Edelgard drains her cup, returning it to the saucer held in her lap. “And that’s only with regards to our natures.”

Add on the fight for open borders, the battle against cultural bias, latent patriarchal ideals, and the thrice-damned crest system with its lingering vestiges... It’s almost too much to fit in one’s mind at once.

"Would that I could be satisfied with only breaking down one wall... But I'm not. I want to see all of them fallen by the day I die."

Byleth rests her teacup on its saucer and reaches down to gently grip Edelgard’s chin, lifting it to face her and instill silence teasing a thumb over her lips.

“Hey, now – don’t make me gag you,” she laughs, “I won’t have you speaking one bit about dying... Have I not already died enough for the both of us?”

“Hm. I should say so,” the Emperor concedes. “Though my goals remain, morbid qualifiers notwithstanding.”

“Small steps, my heart, small steps. Like, what was that you’d been fielding with Hubert, before the wedding plans overtook our attention?”

_Ah, yes._ Edelgard had been stricken with a thought somewhere betwixt the forth and fifth days of absolute agony in withdrawal from the suppressant, when she had plenty of time for mulling over hypotheticals while leering down into a bile-streaked pail.

She’d wondered, for all its heinous effects on her life, if those alchemical instructions were researched further, whether it could be altered to a boon. A more widely-available form of medication to soothe those whose instinctual needs can’t be readily fulfilled for a time, that they might not turn to hasty decisions and more drastic pursuits of succor. Not just for the sake of submissives, either, but dominants’ respective needs should Lysithea’s research have uncovered the mix for the same brew they’d forced upon her.

“...But, I still find myself with pause about it,” Edelgard continues, after reiterating her thoughts. “For all our good intentions, if proliferation of an equivalent substance were to occur uncontrolled, others with equally foul purpose as the Agarthans could simply… do the same again, and in greater number.”

Byleth reaches down for Edelgard’s teacup to dispense another dose. “So, delegate a bit. Leave that for him to work on, or send your thoughts over to our allies at the university, and let the rest lie until after our return.”

Not long after the fall of The Immaculate One, Byleth had quietly obtained for them a humble cottage in the vicinity of Remire Village, along with her considerable donation to the reconstruction effort. Provided the kindly mayor who’d sworn to have an eye kept on it has held to their word, the two of them shall have a cozy hideaway for their short, but well-needed honeymoon.

_Short,_ at Edelgard’s insistence. _Mandatory,_ by Byleth’s command. They’ve found their compromise.

Edelgard affects a lazy smile and rubs her cheek against her dominant’s thigh. “Hm. I suppose there’s no helping it. It will be as my Empress commands.”

Out on the horizon, a gracefully soaring white wyvern and its rider dart and roll through the tallest watchtowers and spires of the city… Apparently Claude’s awake early as well, getting his mount some exercise with a morning fly and putting some of the circling royal guardsman aviators to shame on their far-slower steeds. _Showoff._

From their vantage – even if Edelgard is required to stretch – they can also see down into the gardens, where a few of their visiting friends mill and admire the greenery, now that they’re no longer consumed by the chaos of the reception party. Bernadetta for one seems quite joyful to have found the pitcher plant she’d left here the year prior flourishing as well as she.

Though it seems all their friends and allies are up and about, raring to start their days… The Emperor and Empress are in no hurry to rush out and arrange their transportation. No dire urge for the wives to hop up and shatter their moment of idleness.

_It’s the dawn of a beautiful new era for them both. They can relish it a few minutes more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... there. That's, uh. That's... the first multi-chapter fic I've finished on this site, I guess? (Dubious) Quality aside, I'm an amateur so I really dunno if 34k words in 2~ months is like... a good speed of production or not -- plus factoring in juggling this with my RWBY one -- but... At least it's, like. Done? Wrapped up with a little fluff bow? So... if nothing else I s'pose at least I can like, pat myself on the back for not abandoning it to forever be a 'Chapter # out of ???' thing like so many out there in the proverbial Fic Graveyard of my subscriptions tab.
> 
> So now... uh. Now, fingers crossed I can... like, conjure up some inspiration/motivation/willpower/writing-brain and, like... get started on a new word document.
> 
> Domo thank-you-gato for wasting your time on whatever-the-heck this fic was! ヽ(ﾟｰﾟ*ヽ)


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